AUNT ANGELICA
The first changes referred especially to Hyde's life, and were not
altogether approved by him. His pretence of reading law had to be
abandoned, for he had promised to remain at home with his mother, and
it would not therefore be possible for him to dawdle about Pearl Street
and Maiden Lane watching for Cornelia. But he had that happy and
fortunate temper that trusts to events; and also, he soon began to
realize that if circumstances alter cases, they also alter feelings.
For, looking upon Hyde Manor as the future home of himself and his
wife--and that wife, happily, Cornelia--he found it very easy to take
an almost eager interest in all that concerned its welfare and beauty.
"How good! How unselfish he is!" thought his mother. "Never before has
he been so ready to listen and so willing to please me." But, really,
the work soon became delightful to him. The passion for land and for
its improvement--the ruling passion of an Englishman--was not absent in
George; it was only latent, and the idea of home, of his own personal
home, developed it with amazing rapidity. He was soon able to make
excellent suggestions to his mother; for her ideas, beautiful enough in
the cultivation of flat surfaces, did not embody the grander
possibilities of the higher lands near the river. But George saw every
advantage, and with great ability directed his little gang of labourers
among the rocks and woody crags of the yet unplanted wilderness.
In spite of their anxiety about the General, in spite of George's
longing to see Cornelia, these early summer days, with their glory of
sunshine and shade and their miracles of growth, were very happy days;
though madame reached her happiness by putting the future quite out of
her thoughts, and George reached his by anticipating the future as the
fruition of the present. Never since his early boyhood had madame and
her son been so near and so dear to each other; for her
brother-in-law's probable death and her husband's dangerous journeying
released her from social engagements, and permitted her to spend her
time in the employments and the companionship she loved best of all.
George, while accepting for himself the same partial seclusion, had
more freedom. He rode into town three or four times every week; got the
news of the clubs and the streets; loitered about Maiden Lane and the
shopping district; and when disappointed and vexed at events went to
his Grandmother Van Heemskirk for sympathy. For, as yet, he hesitated
about naming Cornelia to his mother. He was sure she was aware of his
passion, and her reticence on the subject made him fear she was going
to advocate the fulfilment of his father's promise. And he had such a
singular delicacy about the girl he loved that he could not endure the
thought of bandying her name about in an angry discussion. Added to
this fine sense was an adoring love for his mother. She was in anxiety
enough, and would be, until she heard of her husband's safety; why,
then, should he add his anxiety to hers?
Yet he was not happy about Cornelia. Since that unfortunate morning at
Richmond Hill they had never met. If she saw him go up or down Maiden
Lane, she made no sign. Several times Arenta's face at her parlour
window had given him a passing hope; but Arenta's own love affairs were
just then at a very interesting point; and, besides, she regarded the
young Lieutenant's admiration for her friend as only one of his many
transient enthusiasms.
"If there was anything real in it," she reflected, "Cornelia would have
talked about him; and that she has never done." Then she began to
remember, with pride, the very sensible behaviour of her own lover. "My
Athanase," she reflected, "did not give me an hour's rest until we were
engaged. He insisted on talking to father about our marriage
settlements and our future--in fact, he made of love a thing possible
and practical. A lover like Joris Hyde is not, I think, very fortunate."
She did not understand that the quality of love in its finest
revelation desires, after its first sweet inception, a little period of
withdrawal--it wonders at its strange happiness--broods over it--is
fearful of disturbing emotions so exquisite--prefers the certainty of
its delicious suspense to a more definite understanding, and finds a
keen strange delight in its own poignant anxieties and hopes. These are
the birth pangs of an immortal love--of a love that knows within
itself, that it is born for Eternity, and need not to hurry the
three-score-and-ten years of time to a consummation.
Of such noble lineage was the love of Cornelia for Joris Hyde. His
gracious, beautiful youth, seemed a part of her own youth; his ardent,
tender glances had filled her heart with a sweet trouble that she did
not understand. It was the most natural thing in the world that she
should wish to be apart; that she should desire to brood over feelings
so strangely happy; and that in this very brooding they should grow to
the perfect stature of a luminous and unquenchable affection.
Joris was moved by a sentiment of the same kind, though in a lesser
degree. The masculine desire to obtain, and the delightful
consciousness that he possessed, at least, the tremendous advantage of
asking for the love he craved, roused him from the sweet torpor to
which delicious, dreamy love had inclined him.
"I have thought of Cornelia long enough," he said one delightful summer
morning; "with all my soul I now long to see her. And it is not an
impossible thing I desire. In short, there is some way to compass it."
Then a sudden, invincible persuasion of success came to him; he
believed in his own good fortune; he had a conviction that the very
stars connived with a true lover to work his will. And under this
enthusiasm he galloped into town, took his horse to a stable, and then
walked towards Maiden Lane.
In a few moments he saw Arenta Van Ariens. She was in a mist of blue
and white, with flowing curls, and fluttering ribbons; and a general
air of happiness. He placed himself directly in her path, and doffed
his beaver to the ground as she approached.
"Well, then," she cried, with an affected air of astonishment, "who
would have thought of seeing you? Your retirement is the talk of the
town."
"And pray what does the town say?"
"Some part of it says you have lost your fortune at cards; another part
says you have lost your heart and got no compensation for it. 'Tis
strange to see the folly of young people of this age," she added, with
a little pretended sigh of superior wisdom.
"As if you, also, had not lost your heart!" exclaimed Hyde.
"No, sir! I have exchanged mine for its full value. Where are you
going?"
"With you."
"In a word, no. For I am going to Aunt Angelica's."
"Upon my honour, it is to your Aunt Angelica's I desire to go most of
all!"
"Now I understand. You have found out that Cornelia Moran is going
there. Are you still harping on that string? And Cornelia never said
one word to me. I do not approve of such deceit. In my love affairs I
have always been open as the day."
"I assure you that I did NOT know Miss Moran was going there. I had not
a thought of Madame Jacobus until we met. To tell the very truth, I
came into town to look for you."
"For me? And why, pray?"
"I want to see Miss Moran. If I cannot see her, then I want to hear
about her. I thought you, of all people, could tell me the most and the
best. I assured myself that you had infinite good temper. Now, pray do
not disappoint me."
"Listen! We meet this afternoon at my aunt's, to discuss the dresses
and ceremonies proper for a very fine wedding."
"For your own wedding, in fact--Is not that so?"
"Well, then?"
"Well, then, who knows more on that subject than Joris Hyde? Was I not,
last year, at Lady Betty Somer's splendid nuptials; and at Fanny
Paget's, and the Countess of Carlisle's? Indeed, I maintain that in
such a discussion _I_ am an absolute necessity. And I wish to know
Madame Jacobus. I have long wished to know her. Upon my honour, I think
her to be one of the most interesting women in New York!"
"I will advise you a little. Save your compliments until you can say
them to my aunt. I never carry a word to any one."
"Then take me with you, and I will repeat them to her face."
"So? Well, then, here we are, at her very door. I know not what she
will say--you must make your own excuses, sir."
As she was speaking, they ascended the white steps leading to a very
handsome brick house on the west side of Broadway. It had wide iron
piazzas and a fine shady garden at the back, sloping down to the river
bank; and had altogether, on the outside, the very similitude of a
wealthy and fashionable residence. The door was opened by a very dark
man, who was not a negro, and who was dressed in a splendid and
outlandish manner--a scarlet turban above his straight black hair, and
gold-hooped earrings, and a long coat or tunic, heavily embroidered in
strange devices.
"He was an Algerine pirate," whispered Arenta. "My Uncle Jacob brought
him here--and my aunt trusts him--I would not, not for a moment."
As soon as the front door closed, Joris perceived that he was in an
unusual house. The scents and odours of strange countries floated about
it. The hall contained many tall jars, full of pungent gums and roots;
and upon its walls the weapons of savage nations were crossed in idle
and harmless fashion. They went slowly up the highly polished stairway
into a large, low parlour, facing the vivid, everyday business drama of
Broadway; but the room itself was like an Arabian Night's dream, for
the Eastern atmosphere was supplemented by divans and sofas covered
with rare cashmere shawls, and rugs of Turkestan, and with cushions of
all kinds of oriental splendour. Strange tables of wonderful mosaic
work held ivory carvings of priceless worth; and porcelain from unknown
lands. Gods and goddesses from the yellow Gehenna of China and the
utterable idolatry of India, looked out with brute cruelty, or
sempiternal smiles from every odd corner; or gazed with a fascinating
prescience from the high chimney-piece upon all who entered.
The effect upon Hyde was instantaneous and uncanny. His Saxon-Dutch
nature was in instant revolt against influences so foreign and
unnatural. Arenta was unconsciously in sympathy with him; for she said
with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, as she looked around, "I have
always bad dreams after a visit to this room. Do these things have a
life of their own? Look at the creature on that corner shelf! What a
serene disdain is in his smile! He seems to gaze into the very depths
of your soul. I see that there is a curtain to his shrine; and I shall
take leave to draw it." With these words she went to the scornful
divinity, and shut his offending eyes behind the folds of his
gold-embroidered curtain.
Hyde watched her flitting about the strange room, and thought of a
little brown wren among the poisonous, vivid splendours of tropical
swamp flowers. So out of place the pretty, thoughtless Dutch girl
looked among the spoils of far India, and Central America, and of
Arabian and African worship and workmanship. But when the door opened,
and Madame Jacobus, with soft, gliding footsteps entered, Hyde
understood how truly the soul, if given the wherewithal, builds the
habitation it likes best. Once possessed of marvellous beauty, and yet
extraordinarily interesting, she seemed the very genius of the room and
its strange, suggestive belongings. She was unusually tall, and her
figure had kept its undulating, stately grace. Her hair, dazzlingly
white, was piled high above her ample brow, held in place with jewelled
combs and glittering pins. Her face had lost its fine oval and youthful
freshness, but who of any feeling or intelligence would not have far
preferred the worn countenance, expressing in a thousand sensitive
shades and emotions the story of her life and love? And if every other
beauty had failed, Angelica's eyes would have atoned for the loss. They
were large, softly-black, slow-moving, or again, in a moment, flashing
with the fire that lay hidden in the dark pit of the iris.
It was said that her slaves adored her, and that no man who came within
her influence had been able to resist her power--no man, perhaps, but
Captain Jacobus; and he had not resisted, he had been content to
exercise over her a power greater than her own. He had made her his
wife; he had lavished on her for ten years the spoils of the four
quarters of the world; and his worship of her had only been equalled by
her passionate attachment to him. Ten years of love, and then parting
and silence--unbroken silence. Yet she still insisted that he was
alive, and would certainly come back to her. With this faith in her
heart, she had refused to put on any symbol of loss or mourning. She
kept his fine house open, his room ready, and herself constantly
adorned for his home-coming. Society, which insists on uniformity, did
not approve of this unreasonable hope. It expected her to adopt the
garments of widowhood for a time, and then make a match in accordance
with the great fortune Captain Jacobus had left her. But Angelica
Jacobus was a law unto herself; and society was compelled to take her
with those apologizing shrugs it gives to whatever is original and
individual.
She came in with a smile of welcome. She was always pleased that her
fine home should be seen by those strange to it; and perhaps was
particularly pleased that General Hyde's son should be her visitor. And
as Joris was determined to win her favour, there was an almost
instantaneous birth of good-will.
"Let me kiss your hand, madame," said the handsome young fellow,
lifting the jewelled fingers in his own. "I have heard that my father
had once that honour. Do not put me below him;" and with the words he
touched with his warm lips the long white fingers.
Her laugh rang merrily through the dim room, and she answered--"You are
Dick Hyde's own son--nothing else. I see that"--and she drew the young
man towards the light and looked with a steady pleasure into his
smiling face as she asked--
"What brought you here this morning, sir?"
"Madame, I have heard my father speak of you; I have seen you; can you
wonder that I desired to know you? This morning I met Miss Van Ariens,
and when she said she was coming here, I found myself unable to resist
the temptation of coming with her."
"Let me tell you something, aunt. I think Lieutenant Hyde can be of
great service to us. He took part in several noble English weddings
last year, and he offers his advice in our consultation to-day."
"But where is Cornelia? I thought she would come with you."
"She will be here in a few minutes. I saw her half-an-hour ago."
"What a beautiful girl she has become!" said madame.
"She is an angel," said Hyde.
Angelica laughed. "The man who calls a woman an angel has never had any
sisters," she answered; "but, however, she has beauty enough to set
young hearts ablaze. I like the girl, and I wonder not that others do
the same."
Even as she spoke Cornelia entered. There was a little flush and hurry
on her face; but oh, how innocent and joyous it was! Quick-glancing,
sweetly smiling, she entered the musky, scented parlour, and in her
white robe and white hat stood like a lily in its light and gloom. And
when she turned to Hyde an ineffable charm and beauty illumed her
countenance. "How glad I am to see you!" she said, and the very ring of
gladness was in her voice. "And how strange that we should meet here!"
"That is so," replied Madame Jacobus. "One can never see where the
second little bird comes from."
"Am I late, madame? Surely your clock is wrong."
"My clock is never wrong, Cornelia, A Dutch clock will always go just
about so. Come, now, sit down, and let us talk of such follies as
weddings and wedding gowns."
In this conversation Hyde triumphantly redeemed his promise of
assistance. He could describe with a delightful accuracy--or
inaccuracy--the lovely toilets and pretty accessories of the high
English wedding feasts of the previous year. And in some subtle way he
threw into these descriptions such a glamour of romance, such
backgrounds of old castles and chiming bells, of noble dames glittering
with gems, and village maids scattering roses, of martial heroes, and
rejoicing lovers, all moving in an atmosphere of song and sunshine,
that the little party sat listening, entranced, with sympathetic eyes
drinking in his wonderful descriptions.
Madame Jacobus was the first to interrupt these pretty reminiscences.
"All this is very fine," she said, "but the most of it is no good for
us. The satin and the lace and even the gems, we can have; the music
can be somehow managed, and we shall not make a bad show as to love and
beauty. But castles and lords and military pomp, and old cathedrals
hung with battle flags-- Such things are not to be had here, and, in
plain truth, they are not necessary for the wedding of a simple maid
like our Arenta."
"You forget, then, that my Athanase is of almost royal descent," said
Arenta. "A very old family are the Tounnerres--older, indeed, than the
royal Capets."
"No one is to-day so poor as to envy the royal Capets; and as for an
ancient family, Captain Jacobus used to speak of his forefathers as
'the old fellows whom the flood could not wash away.' Jacobus always
put his ideas in such clear, forcible words. What I want to know is
this--where is the ceremony to be performed?"
"The civil ceremony is to be at the French Embassy," answered Arenta
with some pride.
"Is that all there is to it?"
"Aunt! How could you imagine that I should be satisfied with a civil
ceremony? My father also insists upon a religious ceremony; and my
Athanase told him he was willing to marry me in every church in
America. I am not Gertrude Kippon! No, indeed! I insist on everything
being done in a moral and respectable manner. My father spoke of Doctor
Kunz for the religious part."
"I like not Doctor Kunz," answered madame. "Bishop Provoost and the
Episcopal service is the proper thing. Doctor Kunz will be sure to say
some sharp words--his tongue is full of them--he stands too stiff--he
does not use his hands gracefully--his walk and carriage is not
dignified--and he looks at you through spectacles--and I, for one, do
not like to be looked at through spectacles. We must decide for the
Episcopal church."
"And the little trip after it," continued Arenta. "Lieutenant Hyde says
that, in England, it is now the proper thing."
"But in America it is not the proper thing. It is a rude unmannerly way
to run off with a bride. We are not red Indians, nor is the Marquis
carrying you by force from some hostile tribe. The nuptial trip is a
barbarism. I am now weary. Lieutenant, take Miss Moran and show her my
garden. I tell you, it is worth walking through; and when you have seen
the flowers, Arenta and I will give you a cup of tea."
Arenta would gladly have gone into the garden also, but her aunt
detained her. "Can you not see," she asked, "that those two are in love
with each other? Give love its hour. They do not want your company."
"And for that very reason I wish to go with them. My brother is in love
with Cornelia, and I am for Rem, and not for a stranger--also, my
father and Cornelia's father are both for Rem; and, besides, Doctor
Moran hates the Hydes. He will not let Cornelia marry the man."
"HE WILL NOT LET! When did Doctor John become omnipotent? Love laughs
at fathers, as well as at locksmiths. And if Doctor John is against
young Hyde, then I shall the more cheerfully be for him--a pleasant,
handsome youth as ever I saw, is he; and Doctor John--well, he is
neither pleasant nor handsome."
"Aunt Angelica! I am astonished at you! Every one will contradict what
you say."
"For that reason, I will maintain it. It is not my way to shout with
the multitude."
With some hesitation, yet quite carried away by Hyde's personal longing
and impulse, Cornelia went into the garden with her lover. It was a
green, shady place, full of great maple-trees and flowering vines and
shrubs, and patches of green grass. All kinds of sweet old-fashioned
flowers grew there, mingling their scent with the strawberries' perfume
and the woody odours of the ripening cherries. They were alone in this
lovely place; the high privet hedges hid them from the outside world,
and the babble and rumble of Broadway came to them only as the murmur
of noise in a dream. Speechless with joy, Hyde clasped Cornelia's
slender fingers, and they went together down the few broad low steps
which led them into the green shadows of the trees. How soft was the
grassy turf! How exquisite the westering sunlight, sifting through the
maple leaves! They looked into each other's eyes and smiled, but were
too happy to speak. For they had suddenly come into that land, which is
east of the sun, and west of the moon; that land not laid down on any
chart, but which we feel to be our rightful heritage.
Slowly, as they stepped, they came at length to a little summerhouse.
It was covered with a thick jessamin vine; and the mysterious,
languorous perfume of its starlike flowers filled the narrow
resting-place with the very atmosphere of love. They sat down there,
and in a few moments the seal was broken and Hyde's heart found out all
the sweetest words that love could speak. Cornelia trembled; she
blushed, she smiled, she suffered herself to be drawn close to his
side; and, at last, in some sweet, untranslatable way, she gave him the
assurance of her love. Then they found in delicious silence the
eloquence that words were incompetent to translate; time was forgotten,
and on earth there was once more an interlude of heavenly harmony in
which two souls became one and Paradise was regained.
Arenta's voice, petulant and not pleasant, broke the charm. With a sigh
they rose, dropped each other's hand, and went out of their heaven on
earth to meet her.
"Tea is waiting," she said, "and Rem is waiting, and my aunt is tired,
and you two have forgotten that the clock moves." Then they laughed,
and laughter is always fatal to feeling; the magical land of love was
suddenly far away, and there was the sound of china, and the heavy
tones of Rem's voice--dissatisfied, if not angry--and Arenta's lighter
fret; and they stood once more among fetishes and forms so foreign,
fabulous and fantastical, that it was difficult to pass from the land
of love, and all its pure delights, into their atmosphere.
It would have been harder but for Madame Jacobus. She understood; and
she sympathized; and there was a kindly element in her nature which
disposed her to side with the lovers. Her smile,--quick and short as a
flash of the eyes--revealed to Hyde her intention of favour, and
without one spoken word, these two knew themselves to be of the same
mind. And, in parting, she held his hand while she talked, saying at
last the very words he longed to hear--
"We shall expect you again on Thursday, Lieutenant. Everything is yet
undecided, and the work you have begun, it is right that you should
finish."
He answered only, "Thank you, madame!" but he accompanied the words
with a look which asked so much, and confessed so much, that madame
felt herself to be a silent confidante and a not unwilling accomplice.
And when she had closed the door on her guests, she acknowledged it.
"But then," she whispered, "I always did dearly love a lover; and this
promises to be a love affair that will need my help--plenty of good
honest hatred for it to combat--and wealth and rank and all sorts of
conflicting conditions to get the better of--Well, then, my help is
ready. In plain truth, I don't like such perfection as Doctor John; and
my nephew Rem is not interesting. He is sulky, and Hyde is
good-tempered, just like his father, too; and there never was a more
fascinating man than Dick Hyde. HE-HO! I remember!--I remember!--and
yet I dare say Dick has forgotten my very name--this is a marriage that
will exactly suit me--I don't care who is against it!" Then she said
softly to herself--
"REM went to Cornelia as they were about to leave, and he reminded her
that, by her permission, he had come to walk home with her.
"CORNELIA turned to Hyde, excused herself, and, cool and silent, took
her place by Rem's side.
"HYDE accepted the position with a smile, and a gracious bow, and then
joined Arenta.
"ARENTA was far less agreeable than she ought to have been; for both
she and her brother had a kind of divination. They knew, in spite of
appearances, that Rem had not got the best of Joris Hyde. I am quick in
my observations, and I know this is so. Well then, it is a very
interesting affair as it stands--and it is like to grow far more
interesting. I am not opposed to that. I shall enjoy it. Hyde and
Cornelia ought to marry--and they have my good wishes."
As for Hyde, no thought that could mar the sweetness and joy of this
fortunate hour came into his mind. Neither Rem's evident hatred, nor
Arenta's disapproval, nor yet Cornelia's silence, troubled him. He had
within his heart a talisman that made everything propitious. And he was
so joyous that the people whom he passed on the street caught happiness
from him. Men and women alike turned to look after the youth, for they
felt the virtue of his passing presence, and wondered what it might
mean. Even the necessary parting from Cornelia was only a phase of this
wonderful gladness; for Love never fails of his token, and, though
Arenta's sharp eyes could not discover it, Hyde received the silent
message that was meant for him, and for him only. That one thought made
his heart bound and falter with its exquisite delight--for him
only--for him only, was that swift but certain assurance; that
instantaneous bright flash of love that held in it all heaven and
earth, and left him, as he told himself again and again, the happiest
man in all the world.
He was hardly responsible for his actions at this hour; for when a
swift gallop brought him to the Van Heemskirk house, he quite
unconsciously struck the door some rapid, forceful blows, with his
riding whip. His grandfather opened it with an angry face.
"I thought it was thee," he said. "Now, then, in such lordly fashion,
whom didst thou summon? dog or slave, was it?"
"Oh, grandfather, I intended no harm. Did I strike so hard? Upon my
word, I meant it not."
At this moment Madame Van Heemskirk came quickly forward. She turned a
face of disapproval on her husband, and asked sharply, "Why dost thou
complain?"
"I like not my house-door struck so rudely, Lysbet. No man in all
America, but Joris Hyde, would dare to do it."
At these words Joris flung himself from his horse and clasped his
grandfather's hand. "I did wrong," he said warmly; "but I am beside
myself with happiness; and I thought of nothing but telling you. My
heart was in such a hurry that my hands forgot how to behave
themselves."
"So happy as that, art thou? Good! Come in, and tell us what has
happened to thee."
But Lysbet divined the joy in her grandson's face; and she said softly
as he seated himself at the open window where his grandfather's chair
was placed--
"It is Cornelia?"
"Yes, it is Cornelia. She loves me! The most charming girl the sun ever
shone upon loves me. It is incredible! It is amazing! I cannot believe
in my good fortune. Will you assure me it is possible? I want to hear
some one say so--and who is there but my grandfather and you? I do not
like to tell my mother, just yet. What do you say?"
"I say that thou hast chosen a good girl for a wife. God bless thee,"
answered Lysbet with great emotion.
Van Heemskirk smiled, but was silent; and Hyde stooped forward, gently
moved his long pipe away from his lips, and said, "Grandfather, speak,
You know Cornelia Moran?"
"I have seen her. With thee I saw her--walking with thee--dancing with
thee. A great beauty I thought her. Thy grandmother says she is good.
Well, then, the love of a good, beautiful girl, is something to be glad
over. Not twice in a lifetime comes such great fortune. But make up thy
mind to expect much opposition. Doctor John and thy father were ever
unfriends. Thy father has other plans for thee; Cornelia's father has
doubtless other plans for her. Few men can stand against Doctor John;
he has the word, and the way, to carry all before him. I know not how
the little Cornelia can dare to disobey him."
"She has said 'yes' to me; and, before heaven and earth, she will stand
by it."
"Say that much. And of thyself, art thou sure?"
"Why art thou throwing cold water on such sweet hopes?" said Lysbet to
her husband.
"Because, when love flames beyond duty and honour and all expediences,
Lysbet, some one a little cold water ought to throw. And THOU will not
do it. No! Rather, would thou add fuel to the flame."
"I know not what you mean, sir," said Hyde, vaguely troubled by his
grandfather's words.
"I think thou knowest well what I mean. Thy father has told thee that
thy duty and thy honour are pledged to Annie Hyde."
"I never pledged! Never!"
"But, as in thy baptism thy father made vows for thee, so also for thy
marriage he made promises. Noble birth has responsibility, as well as
privilege. For thyself alone it is not permitted thee to live, from
both the past and the future there are demands on thee."
"Grandfather, this living for the future is the curse of the English
land-owners. They enjoy not the present, for they are busy taking care
of the years they will never see. Their sons are in their way; it is
their grandsons and their great-grandsons that interest them. Why
should my father plan for my marriage? He may be Earl Hyde for twenty
years--and I hope he will. For twenty years Cornelia and I can be happy
here in America; and twenty years is a great opportunity. Everything
can happen in twenty years. Of one thing I am sure--I will marry
Cornelia Moran, even if I run away with her to the ends of the earth."
"'Run away with her.' To be sure! That is in the blood;" and the old
man looked sternly back to the days when Hyde's father ran away with
his own little daughter.
With some anger Lysbet answered his thoughts. "What art thou talking
about? What art thou thinking of? Many good men have run away with
their wives. This almighty Doctor John ran away with his wife. Did not
Ava Willing leave her father's house and her friends and her faith for
him? And did not the Quakers read her out of their Meeting for her
marriage?--and I blame them not. Doctor John was no match for Ava
Willing. More, too, if thou must look back; remember one May night,
when thou and I sat by the Collect in the moonlight, and thou gave me
this ring. What did thou say to me that night?"
"'Tis years ago, Lysbet, and If I have forgotten--"
"Forgotten! Well, then, men do forget; but they may be thankful that
God has so made women that they do NOT forget. The words thou said that
night have been singing in my heart for fifty years; and yet, if thou
must be told, some of those words were about RUNNING AWAY WITH
THEE;--for, at the first, my father liked thee not."
"Lysbet! My sweet Lysbet! I have not forgotten. For thy dear sake I
will stand by Joris, though in doing so I am sure I shall make some
unfriends."
"Good, my husband. I take leave to say that thou art doing right."
"Well, then," said Hyde, "if my grandmother stand by me, and you also,
sir; and also Madame Jacobus--"
"Madame Jacobus!" cried Lysbet.
"Yes, indeed!" answered Hyde. "'Tis to her understanding and kindness I
owe my opportunity; and she gave me, also, one look which I cannot
pretend to misunderstand--a look of clear sympathy--a look that
promised help."
"She is a clever woman," said Van Heemskirk. "If Joris has her good
will it is not to be thrown away."
"I like her not," said Lysbet. "With my grandson, with my affairs, why
should she meddle? Pray, now, what took thee, Joris, to her house? It
is full of idolatries and graven images. Doctor Kunz once wrote to her
a letter about them. He said she ought to remember the Second
Commandment. And she wrote to him a letter, and told him to trouble
himself with his own business. Much anger and shame there might have
been out of this, but Angelica Jacobus is rich, and she is generous to
the church, and to the poor; and Doctor Kunz said to the elders, 'Let
her alone, for there is a savour of righteousness in her;' and when she
heard of that, she was pleased with the Doctor, and sent him one
hundred dollars for the Indian Mission. But, Joris, she is no good to
thee. I hear many queer stories of her."
"Downright lies, all of them," replied Hyde. Then he rose, saying, "I
must ride onward. My mother will not sleep until she sees me."
"It is nearly dark," said Van Heemskirk, "and to-night thou art in the
clouds. The land and the water will be alike to thee. Rest until the
morning."
"I fear not the dark. I know the road by night or by day."
"Yet, even so, mind what I tell thee--if thou ride in the dark, be not
wiser than thy beast."
Then they walked with him to the door, and watched him leap to his
saddle and ride into the twilight trembling over the misty meadows,
trickling with dews. And a great melancholy fell over them, and they
could not resume the conversation. Joris re-lit his pipe, and Lysbet
went softly and thoughtfully about her household duties. It was one of
those hours in which Life distills for us her vague melancholy wine;
and Joris and Lysbet drank deeply of it.
The moon was in its third day, and the silent crescent has no calmer
and sweeter time; yet Joris it inclined to a sad presentiment. "In my
heart there is a fear, Lysbet," he said softly. "I think our boy has
gone a road he will dearly rue. I foresee disputing, and wounded
hearts, and lives made barren by many disappointed hopes."
"Nothing of the kind," answered Lysbet cheerfully. "Our little Joris is
so happy to-night, why wilt thou think evil for him? To think evil is
to bring evil. Out of foolishness or perchance such a great love has
not come. No, indeed! That it comes from heaven I am sure; and to
heaven I will leave its good fortune."
"Pleasant are thy hopes, Lysbet; but, too often, vain and foolish."
"Thy reasoning, is it any wiser? No. Often I have found it wrong. One
thing the years have said to me, it is this--'Lysbet put not thy
judgment in the place of Providence. If thou trust Providence, thou
hast the easy heart of a child of God; if thou trust to thine own
judgment, thou hast the troubled heart of an anxious woman.'"