A HEART THAT WAITS
Late summer on the Norfolk Broads! And where on earth can the lover of
boats find a more charming resort? How alluring are the mysterious
entrances to these Broads! where a boat seems to make an insane dive
into a hopeless cul de sac of a ditch, and then suddenly emerges on a
wide expanse of water, teeming with pike and bream and eels; and
fringed with a border of plashy ground, full of reeds and willows and
flowering flags; and alive with water fowl.
Now close to the Manor of Hyde, the country home of Earl Hyde in
Norfolk, there was one of these delightful Broads--flat as a billiard
table, and hidden by the tall reeds which bordered it. But Annie Hyde
lying at the open window of her room in the Manor House could see its
silvery waters, and the black-sailed wherry floating on them, and the
young man sitting at the prow fishing, and idling, among the lilies and
languors of these hot summer days. Her hands were folded, her lips
moved, she was asking of some intelligence among the angels, grace and
favour for one who was dearer to her than her own life or happiness.
An aged man sat silently by her, a man of noble beauty, whose soul was
in every part of his body, expressive and impressive--a fiery particle
not always at its window, but when there, infecting and going through
observers, whether they would or not. He was dressed altogether in
black, and had fine small hands, a thin austere face and clean
sensitive lips which seemed to say, "He hath made us kings and
priests"--a man of celestial race, valuing things at their eternal, not
at their temporal worth.
There had been silence for some time between them, and he did not
appear disposed to break it; but Annie longed for him to do so, because
she had a mystical appetite for sacred things, and was never so happy
and so much at rest as when he was talking to her of them. For she
loved God, and had been led to the love of God by a kind of thirst for
God.
"Dear father," she said finally, "I have been thinking of the past
years, in which you have taught me so much."
"It is better to look forward, Annie," he answered. "The traveller to
Eternity must not continually turn back to count his steps; for if God
be leading him, no matter how dangerous or lonely the road, 'He will
pluck thy feet out of the net.'"
"Even in the valley of death?"
"'BE NOT AFRAID! NOTHING OF THEE WILL DIE!' Take these sweet
compassionate words of Jesus, as He wept by the dying bed of Joseph,
His father, into thy heart. Blessed are the homesick, Annie! for they
shall get home."
"All my life I have loved God, and His love has been over me."
"Date not God's love from thy nativity; look far, far back of it--to
the everlasting love."
"After death, I SHALL KNOW."
"Death!" he repeated, "Death that deceitful word. What is it? A dream,
that wakes us at the end of the night. This is the great saying that
men forget--Death is Life!"
"Yet life ceases."
"It does not, Annie. Death, is like the setting of the sun. The sun
never sets; life never ceases. Certain phenomena occur which deceive
us, because human vision is so feeble--we think the sun sets, and it
never ceases shining; we think our friends die, and they never cease
living."
As he spoke these words Mary Damer entered, and she laid her hand on
his shoulder and said, "My dear Doctor Roslyn, after death what then?
we are not all good--what then?"
He looked at her wistfully and answered, "I will give you one thought,
Mary, to ponder--the blessedness of heaven, is it not an eternity older
than the misery of hell? Let your soul fearlessly follow where this
fact leads it; for there is no limit to God's mercy. Do you think it is
His way to worry a wandering sheep eternally? Jesus Christ thought
better of His father. He told us that the Great Shepherd of souls
followed such sheep into the wilderness, and brought them home in His
arms, or on His shoulder, and then called on the angels of heaven to
rejoice because they were found. Find out what that parable means,
Mary. He whose name is 'Love' can teach you."
Then he rose and went away, and Mary sat down in his place, and Annie
gradually came back to the material plane of everyday life and duty.
Indeed Mary brought this element in a very decided form with her; for
she had a letter in her hand from an old lover, and she was much
excited by its advent, and eager to discuss the particulars with Annie.
"It is from Captain Seabright, who is now in Pondicherry," she
explained. "He loves me, Annie. He loved me long ago, and went to India
to make money; now he says he has enough and to spare; and he asks me
if I have forgotten."
"There is Mr. Van Ariens to consider. You have promised to marry him,
Mary. It is not hard to find the right way on this road, I think."
"Of course. I would scorn to do a dishonourable or unhandsome thing.
But is it not very strange Willie Seabright should write to me at this
time? How contradictory life is! I had also a letter from Mr. Van
Ariens by the same mail, and I shall answer them both this evening."
Then she laughed a little, and added, "I must take care and not make
the mistake an American girl made, under much the same circumstances."
"What was it?" inquired Annie languidly.
"She misdirected her letters and thus sent 'No' to the man whom of all
others, she wished to marry."
As Mary spoke a soft brightness seemed to pervade Annie's brain cells,
and she could hardly restrain the exclamation of sudden enlightenment
that rose to her lips. She raised herself slightly, and in so doing,
her eyes fell upon the tall figure of Hyde standing clearly out in the
intense, white sunshine of the Broads; and perhaps her soul may have
whispered to his soul, for he turned his face to the house, and lifted
the little red fishing cap from his head. The action stimulated to the
utmost Annie's intuitive powers.
"Mary," she said, "what a strange incident! Did you know the girl?"
"I saw her once in Philadelphia. Mr. Van Ariens told me about her. She
is the friend of his sister the Marquise de Tounnerre."
"How did Mr. Van Ariens know of such an event?"
"I suppose the Marquise told him of it."
"I am interested. Is she pretty? Who, and what is her father? Did she
lose her lover through the mistake?"
"You are more interested in this American girl, than in me. I think you
might ask a little concerning my love affair with Captain Seabright."
"I always ask you about Mr. Van Ariens. A girl cannot have two lovers,"
"But if one is gone away?"
"Then he has gone away; and that is the end of him. He must not trouble
the one who has come to stay, eh, Mary?"
"You are right, Annie. But one's first lover has always a charm above
reason; and Willie Seabright was once very dear to me."
"I am sorry for that unfortunate American girl."
"So am I. She is a great beauty. Her name is Cornelia Moran; and her
father is a famous physician in New York."
"And this beauty had two lovers?"
"Yes; an Englishman of noble birth; and an American. They both loved
her, and she loved the Englishman. They must have both asked her hand
on the same day, and she must have answered both letters in the same
hour; and the letter she intended for the man she loved, went to the
man she did not love. Presumably, the man she loved got the refusal she
intended for the other, for he never sought her society again; and Mr.
Van Ariens told me she nearly died in consequence. I know not as to
this part of the story; when I saw her in Philadelphia, she had no more
of fragility than gave delicacy to all her charms."
"And what became of the two lovers, Mary?"
"The Englishman went back to England; and the American found another
girl more kind to him."
"I wonder what made Mr. Van Ariens tell you this story?"
"He talked much of his sister, and this young lady was her chief friend
and confidante."
"When did it happen?"
"A few days after his sister's marriage."
"Then the Marquise could not know of it; and so she could not have told
her brother. However in the world could he have found out the mistake?
Do you think the girl herself found it out?"
"That is inconceivable," answered Mary. "She would have written to her
lover and explained the affair."
"Certainly. It is a very singular incident. I want to think it
over--how--did--Mr. Van Ariens--find--it--out, I wonder!"
"Perhaps the rejected lover confided in him."
"But why did not the rejected lover send the letter he received--and
which he must have known he had no right to retain--to Miss Moran, or
to the Englishman for whom it was intended? A man who could keep a
letter like that, must have some envious sneaking devil in his body. A
bad man, Mary, a bad man--the air must be unclean in any room he comes
into."
"Why Annie! How angry you are. Let us drop the subject. I really do
want to tell you something about Willie Seabright."
"What did Mr. Van Ariens say about the matter? What did he think? Why
did he tell you?"
"We were talking of the Marquise. The story came up quite naturally. I
think Mr. Van Ariens felt very sorry for Miss Moran. Of course he did.
Will you listen to Captain Seabright's letter? I had no idea it could
affect me so much."
"But you loved him once?"
"Very dearly."
"Well then, Mary, I think no one has a double in love or friendship. If
the loved one dies, or goes away, his place remains empty forever. We
have lost feelings that he, and he only, could call up."
At this point in the conversation Hyde entered, brown and wind-blown,
the scent of the sedgy water and the flowery woods about him.
"Your servant, ladies," he said gayly, "I have bream enough for a dozen
families, Mary; and I have sent a string to the rectory."
"Poor little fish!" answered Annie. "They could not cry out, or plead
with you, or beg for their lives, and because they were dumb and opened
not their mouths, they were wounded and strangled to death."
"Don't say such things, Annie. How can I enjoy my sport if you do?"
"I don't think you ought to enjoy sport which is murder. You have your
wherry to sail, is not that sport enough? I have heard you say nothing
that floats on fresh water, can beat a Norfolk wherry."
"I vow it is the truth. With her fine lines and strong sails she can
lie closer to the wind than any other craft. She is safe, and fast, and
handy to manage. Three feet of water will do her, though she be sixty
tons burden; and I will sail her where nothing but a row boat can
follow me."
"Is not that sport enough?"
"I must have something to get. I would have brought you armfuls of
flowers, but you do not like me to cut them."
"I like my flowers alive, George. You must be dull indeed if you make
no difference between the scent of growing flowers, and cut ones.
Tomorrow Mary is going to Ranforth, you must go with her, and you may
bring me some peaches from the Hall, if you please to do so."
Then Hyde and Mary had a game of battledore, and she watched them
tossing the gayly painted corks, until amid their light laughter and
merry talk she fell asleep. And when she awakened it was sunset, and
there was no one in her room but her maid. She had slept long, but in
spite of its refreshment, she had a sense of something uneasy. Then she
recalled the story Mary Damer had told her, and because she
comprehended the truth, she was instantly at rest. The whole secret was
clear as daylight to her. She knew now every turn of an event so full
of sorrow. She was positive Rem Van Ariens was himself the thief of her
cousin's love and happiness, and the bringer of grief--almost of
death--to Cornelia. All the facts she did not have, but facts are
little; intuition is everything. She said to herself, "I shall not be
long here, and before I go away, I must put right love's wrong."
She considered then what she ought to do, and gradually the plan that
pleased her best, grew distinctly just, and even-handed in her mind.
She would write to Cornelia. Her word would be indisputable. Then she
would dismiss the subject from her conversations with Mary, until
Cornelia's answer arrived; nor until that time would she say a word of
her suspicions to Hyde. In pursuance of these resolutions the following
letter to Cornelia left Hyde Manor for New York the next mail:
To Miss CORNELIA MORAN:
Because you are very dear to one of my dear kindred, and because I feel
that you are worthy of his great love, I also love you. Will you trust
me now? There has been a sad mistake. I believe I can put it right. You
must recollect the day on which George Hyde wrote asking you to fix an
hour when he could call on Doctor Moran about your marriage. Did any
other lover ask you on that day to marry him? Was that other lover Mr.
Van Ariens? Did you write to both about the same time? If so, you
misdirected your letters; and the one intended for Lord Hyde went to
Mr. Van Ariens; and the one intended for Mr. Van Ariens, went to Lord
Hyde. Now you will understand many things. I found out this mistake
through the young lady Mr. Van Ariens is intending to marry. Can you
send to me, for Lord Hyde, a copy of the letter you intended for him.
When I receive it, you may content your heart. I may never see you
again, but I would like you to remember me by this act of loving
kindness; and I wish you all the joy in your love, that I could wish
myself. The shadows will soon flee away, and when your wedding bells
ring, I shall know; and rejoice with you, and with my dear cousin.
Delay not to answer this, why should you delay your happiness? I send
you as love gifts my thoughts, desires, prayers, all that is best in
me, al! that I give to one high in my esteem, and whom I wish to place
high in my affection, This to your hand and heart, with all sincerity,
ANNIE HYDE.
When she had signed her name she was full of content, her face was
transfigured with the joy she foresaw for others, and she thought not
of her own gain, though it was great--even the riches of that divine
self-culture, that comes only through self-sacrifice. She calculated
her letter would reach Cornelia about the end of September, and she
thought how pleasantly the hope it brought, would brighten her life.
And without permitting Hyde to suspect any change in his love affair,
she very often led the conversation to Cornelia, and to the
circumstances of her life. Hyde was always willing to talk on this
subject, and thus she learned so much about Arenta, and Madame Jacobus,
and Rem Van Ariens, that the people became her familiars. Arenta
particularly interested her, and she spoke and thought continually of
the gay little Dutch girl among the human tigers of Paris. And the
thought of her ended ever in a silent prayer for her safety. "I must
ask some strong angel to go and help her," she said to Hyde, "a city
full of blood, must be a city full of evil spirits, and she will need
the wings of angels round her--like a pavilion--so when she comes into
my mind I say 'angels of deliverance go to her.' And I think she must
be in a great strait now, or I should not feel so constrained to pray
for her."
"And you believe such prayer avails for deliverance, Annie?"
"I am sure it avails. When we invoke earnestly and sincerely the help
of any higher and stronger intelligence than ourselves, the angels are
with us. They come when the heart calls them; for they are appointed to
be ministers unto those who shall inherit eternal life." And Hyde
listened silently, yet the words fell into his deepest consciousness,
and after many years brought him strength and consolation when he
needed it. Thus it is, that a good woman is a priestess standing by the
altar of the heart, thus it is, that the very noblest education any man
ever gets is what some woman--mother, wife, sister, friend--gives him.
Certainly the letter sent to Cornelia sped on its way all the more
rapidly and joyfully for the good wishes and unselfish prayers
accompanying it. The very ship might have known it was the bearer of
good tidings; for if there had been one of the mighty angels whose
charge is on the great deep at the helm of the Good Intent she could
not have gone more swiftly and surely to her haven. One morning, nearly
a week in advance of Annie's calculation, the wonderful letter was put
into Cornelia's hand. She was passing through the hall on her way to
her room, when Balthazar brought in the mail, and she took the little
white messenger without any feeling but one of curiosity concerning it.
The handwriting was strange, it was an English letter, what could it
mean?
Let any one who has loved and been parted from the beloved by some
misunderstanding, try to realize what it meant to Cornelia. She read it
through in an indescribable hurry and emotion, and then in the most
natural and womanly way, began to cry. No one could have loved her the
less for that sincere overflow of emotions she could not separate or
define, and which indeed she never tried to understand. It was only one
wonderful thought she could entertain--IT WAS NOT THE FAULT OF JORIS.
This was the assurance that turned her joyful tears into gladder
smiles, and that made her step light as a bird on the wing, as she ran
down the stairs to find her mother; for her happiness was not perfect
till she shared it with the heart that had borne her sorrow, and
carried her grief through many weary months, with her.
Oh, how glad were these two women! They were almost too glad to speak.
Sitting still was impossible to Cornelia, but as she stepped swiftly
to-and-fro across the parlour floor, she stopped frequently at her
mother's chair and kissed her. She kissed Annie's letter just as
frequently. It was such a gracious, noble letter. It was such a delight
to know that friendship so unselfish was waiting for her. It was
altogether such a marvellous thing that had come to her, that she could
not behave as a superior woman ought to have done. But then she was not
a superior woman, she was only lovable and loving, and therefore
restless and inconsequent.
In the first hours of her recovered gladness she did not even remember
Rem's great fault, nor yet her own carelessness. These things were only
accidentals, not worthy to be taken into account while the great sweet
hope that had come to her, flooded like a springtide every nook and
corner of her heart. In such a mood how easy it was to answer Annie's
letter. She recollected every word she had written to Hyde that fateful
day, and she wrote them again with a tenfold joy. She told Annie every
particular, and she forgot to say a word of reproach concerning the
dishonourable retention of her letter by Rem. "It is altogether my own
fault," she confessed.
Even when this letter was on its way to Annie she was under such
excitement that her whole body appeared to think and to feel; her
beautiful hair had an unusual freedom, as if some happy wind blew it
into exquisite unrestraint; her eyes shone like stars; her garments
fluttered; her steps were like dancing; and every now and then, a bar
or two of love music warbled in her throat. And oh with what joy the
mother watched the return of happiness to her dear child! With her own
milk she had fed her. In her own bosom she had carried and tended her.
Night and day for nearly twenty years, like a bird, she had feverishly,
prayfully, tenderly hovered over her; so there was great joy in the
Doctor's home and though he would say little, his heart grew lighter in
his wife's and daughter's cheerfulness; for the women in any house make
the moral and mental atmosphere of that house just as decidedly, as the
sunshine or rain affect the natural atmosphere outside of it.
Now it is very noticeable that when unusual events begin to happen in
any life, there is a succession of such events, and not unfrequently
they arrive in similar ways. At any rate about ten days after the
receipt of Annie's letter, Cornelia was almost equally amazed by the
receipt of another letter. It came one day about noon, and a slave of
Van Ariens brought it--a piece of paper twisted carelessly but
containing these few pregnant words:
Cornelia, dear, come to me. Bring me something to wear. I have just
arrived, saved by the skin of my teeth, and I have not a decent garment
of any kind to put on. ARENTA.
A thunderbolt from a clear sky could hardly have caused such surprise,
but Cornelia did not wait to talk about the wonder. She loaded a maid
with clothing of every description, and ran across the street to her
friend. Arerita saw her coming, and met her with a cry of joy, and as
Van Ariens was sick and trembling with the sight of his daughter, and
the tale of her sufferings, Cornelia persuaded him to go to sleep, and
leave Arenta to her care. Poor Arenta, she was ill with the privations
she had suffered, she was half-starved, and nearly without clothing,
but she did not complain much until she had been fed, and bathed, and
"dressed" as she said "like a New York woman ought to be."
"You know what trunks and trunks full of beautiful things I took away
with me, Cornelia," she complained; "Well I have not a rag left. I have
nothing left at all."
"Your husband, Arenta?"
"He was guillotined."
"Oh, my dear Arenta!"
"Guillotined. I told him to be quiet. I begged him to go over to Marat,
but no! his nobility obliged him to stand by his order and his king. So
for them, he died. Poor Athanase! He expected me to follow him, but I
could not make up my mind to the knife. Oh how terrible it was!" Then
she began to sob bitterly, and Cornelia let her talk of her sufferings
until she fell into a sleep--a sleep easy to see, still haunted by the
furies and terrors through which she had passed.
For a week Cornelia remained with her friend, and Madame Jacobus joined
them as often as possible, and gradually the half-distraught woman
recovered something of her natural spirits and resolution. In this week
she talked out all her frightful experiences in the great prison of La
Force, and was completely overwhelmed at their remembrance. But the
trouble which has been removed, soon grows far off; and Arenta quickly
took her place in her home, and resumed her old life. Of course with
many differences. She could not be the same Arenta, she had outlived
many of her illusions. She took but little interest for a while in the
life around her; her thoughts and conversation were still in Paris, and
this was evident from the fact, that during the whole week of
Cornelia's stay with her, she never once named Cornelia's love, or
life, or prospects. Rem she did talk about, but chiefly because he was
going to marry an English girl, an intention she angrily deplored.
"I am sure," she said, "Rem might have learned a lesson from my sad
fortune. What does he want to marry a foreigner for? He ought to have
prevented me from doing so, instead of following my foolish example."
"No one could have prevented you, Arenta. You would not listen even to
your father."
"Oh indeed, it was my fate. We must all submit to fate. Why did you
refuse Rem?"
"He was not my fate, Arenta."
"Well then, neither is George Hyde your fate. Aunt Jacobus has told me
some things about him. She says he is to marry his cousin. You ought to
marry Rem."
As she said these words Van Ariens, accompanied by Joris Van Heemskirk
entered the room, and Cornelia was glad to escape. She knew that Arenta
would again relate all her experiences, and she disliked to mingle them
with her renewed dreams of love and her lover.
"She will talk and talk," said Cornelia to her mother, "and then there
will be tea and chocolate and more talk, and I have heard all I wish to
hear about that dreadful city, and the demons who walk in blood."
"Arenta has made a great sensation, Cornelia," answered Mrs. Moran.
"She has received half the town. Gertrude Kippon stole quietly home and
has hardly been seen, or heard tell of."
"But mother, Arenta has far more genius than Gertrude. She has made of
her misfortunes a great drama, and wherever you go, it is of the
Marquise de Tounnerre people are talking. Senator Van Heemskirk came in
with her father as I left."
"I hope he treated you more civilly than madame did."
"He was delightful. I courtesied to him, and he lifted my hand and
kissed it, and said, 'I grew lovelier every day,' and I kissed his
cheek and said, 'I wished always to be lovely in his sight.' Then I
came home, because I would not, just yet, speak of George to him."
"Arenta would hardly have given you any opportunity. I wonder at what
hour she will release Joris Van Heemskirk!"
"It will be later than it ought to be."
Indeed it was so late that Madame Van Heemskirk had locked up her house
for the night, and was troubled at her husband's delay--even a little
cross:
"An old man like you, Joris," she said in a tone of vexation--"sitting
till nine o'clock with the last runaway from Paris; a cold you have
already, and all for a girl that threw her senses behind her, to marry
a Frenchman."
"Much she has suffered, Lysbet."
"Much she ought to suffer. And I believe not in Arenta Van Ariens'
suffering. In some way, by hook or crook, by word or deed, she would
out of any trouble work her way."
"I will sit a little by the fire, Lysbet. Sit down by me. My mind is
full of her story."
"That is it. And sleep you will not, and tomorrow sick you will be; and
anxious and tired I shall be; and who for? The Marquise de Tounnerre!
Well then, Joris, in thy old age it is late for thee to bow down to the
Marquise de Tounnerre!"
"To God Almighty only I bow down, Lysbet, and as for titles what care
of them has Jons Van Heemskirk? Think you, when God calls me He will
say 'Councillor' or 'Senator'? No, He will say 'Jons Van Heemskirk!'
and I shall answer to that name. But you know well, Lysbet, this bloody
trial of liberty in Paris touches all the world beside."
"Forgive me, Joris! A shame it is to be cross with thee, nor am I cross
even with that poor Arenta. A child, a very child she is."
"But bitter fears and suffering she has come through. Her husband was
guillotined last May, and from her home she was taken--no time to write
to a friend--no time to save anything she had, except a string of
pearls, which round her waist for many weeks, she had worn. From prison
to prison she was sent, until at last she was ordered before the
Revolutionary Tribunal. From that tribunal to the guillotine is only a
step, and she would surely have taken it but for--"
"Minister Morris?"
"No. Twenty miles outside the city, Minister Morris now lives; and no
time was there to send him word of her strait. Hungry and sick upon the
floor of her prison she was sitting, when her name was called, for bead
after bead of her pearl necklace had gone to her jailor, only for a
little black bread and a cup of milk twice a day; and this morning for
twenty-four hours she had been without food or milk."
[Illustration: "ARENTA BEFORE THE REVOLUTIONARY TRIBUNAL"]
"The poor little one! What did she do?"
"This is what she did, and blame her I will not. When in that terrible
iron armchair before those bloody judges, she says she forgot then to
be afraid. She looked at Fouquier-Tinville the public prosecutor, and
at the fifteen jurymen, and flinched not. She had no dress to help her
beauty, but she declares she never felt more beautiful, and well I can
believe it. They asked her name, and my Lysbet, think of this child's
answer! 'I am called Arenta JEFFERSON de Tounnerre,' she said; and at
the name of 'Jefferson' there were exclamations, and one of the jurymen
rose to his feet and asked excitedly, 'What is it you mean? Jefferson!
The great Jefferson! The great Thomas Jefferson! The great American who
loves France and Liberty?' 'It is the same,' she answered, and then she
sat silent, asking no favour, so wise was she, and Fouquier-Tinville
looked at the President and said--'among my friends I count this great
American!' and a juryman added, 'when I was very poor and hungry he fed
and helped me,' and he bowed to Arenta as he spoke. And after that
Fouquier-Tinville asked who would certify to her claim, and she
answered boldly, 'Minister Morris.' When questioned further she
answered, 'I adore Liberty, I believe in France, I married a Frenchman,
for Thomas Jefferson told me I was coming to a great nation and might
trust both its government and its generosity.' They asked her then if
she had been used kindly in prison, and she told them her jailor had
been to her very unkind, and that he had taken from her the pearl
necklace which was her wedding gift, and if you can believe Arenta,
they were all extremely polite to her, and gave her at once the papers
which permitted her to leave France. The next day a little money she
got from Minister Morris, but a very hard passage she had home. And
listen now, her jailor was guillotined before she left, and she
declares it was the necklace--very unfortunate beads they were, and
Madame Jacobus said when she heard of their fate, 'let them go! With
blood and death they came, it is fit they should go as they came!'
Arenta thinks as soon as Fouquier-Tinville heard of them, he doomed the
man, for she saw in his eyes that he meant to have them for himself.
Well, then, she is also sure that they will take Fouquier-Tinville to
the guillotine."
"After all, it was a lie she told, Joris."
"That is so, but I think her life was worth a few words. And Thomas
Jefferson says she was ten thousand times welcome to the protection his
name gave her. I thank my God I have never had such temptation. I will
say one thing though, Lysbet, that if coming home some night, a thief
should say to me 'your money I must have' and if in my pocket I had
some false money, as well as true money, the false money I would give
the thief and think no shame to do it. Overly righteous we must not be,
Lysbet."
"I am astonished also. I thought Arenta would cry out and that only."
"What a man or a woman will do and suffer, and how they will do and
suffer, no one knows till comes some great occasion. When the water is
ice, who could believe that it would boil, unless they had seen ice
become boiling water? All the human heart wants, is the chance."
"As men and women have in Paris to live, I wonder me, that they can
wish to live at all! Welcome to them must be death."
"So wrong are you, Lysbet. Trouble and hardship make us love life. A
zest they give to it. It is when we have too much money, too much good
food and wine, too much pleasure of all kinds, that we grow melancholy
and sad, and say all is vanity and vexation. You may see that it is
always so, if you look in the Holy Scriptures. It was not from the Jews
in exile and captivity, but from the Jews of Solomon's glory came the
only dissatisfied, hopeless words in the Bible. Yes, indeed! it is the
souls that have too much, who cry out vanity, vanity, all is vanity!
For myself, I like not the petty prudencies of Solomon. There is better
reading in Isaiah, and in the Psalms, and in the blessed Gospels."
"To-morrow, Joris, I will go and see Arenta. She is fair, and she knows
it; witty, and she knows it; of good courage, and she knows it; the
fashion, and she knows it; and when she speaks, she speaks oracles that
one must believe, even though one does not understand them. To Aurelia
Van Zandt she said, my heart will ache forever for my beloved Athanase,
and Aurelia says, that her old lover Willie Nicholls is at her feet
sitting all the day long--yet for all these things, she is a brave
woman and I will go and see her."
"Willie Nicholls is a good young man, and he is rich also; but of him I
saw nothing at all. Cornelia Moran was there and no flower of Paradise
is so sweet, so fair!"
"A very proud girl! I am glad she said 'no' to my Joris."
"Come, my Lysbet, we will now pray and sleep. There is so much NOT to
say."