THE NEW DAYS COME
One afternoon in the late autumn Annie was sitting watching Hyde
playing with his dog, a big mastiff of noble birth and character. The
creature sat erect with his head leaning against Hyde, and Hyde's arm
was thrown around his neck as he talked to him of their adventures on
the Broad that day. Annie's small face, though delicate and fragile
looking was full of peace, and her eyes, soft, deep and heavenly, held
thoughts that linked her with heaven.
Outside there was in the air that November feeling which chills like
the passing breath of death, the deserted garden looked sad and
closed-in, and everywhere there was a sense of the languishing end of
the year, of the fading and dropping of all living things. But in the
house Annie and Hyde and the dog sat within the circle of warmth and
light made by the blazing ash logs, and in that circle there was at
least an atmosphere of sweet content. Suddenly George looked up and his
eyes caught those of Annie watching him. "What have you been reading,
Annie?" he asked, as he stooped forward and took a thin volume from her
lap. "Why!" he cried, "'tis Paul and Virginia. Do you indeed read love
stories?"
"Yes. The mystery of a love affair pleases every one; and I think we
shall not tire of love stories till we tire of the mystery of spring,
or of primroses and daffodils. Every one I know takes their tale of
love to be quite a new tale."
"Love has been cruel to me. It has made a cloud on my life that will
help to cover me in my grave."
"You still love Cornelia?"
"I cannot cure myself of a passion so hopeless. However, as I see no
end to my unhappiness, I try to submit to what I cannot avoid. What is
the use of longing for that which I have no hope to get?"
"My uncle grows anxious for you to marry. He would be glad to see the
succession of Hyde assured."
"Oh, indeed, I have no mind to take a wife. I hear every day that some
of my acquaintance have married, I hear of none that have done worse."
"You believe nothing of what you say. My uncle was much pleased with
Sarah Capel. What did you think of the beauty?"
"Cornelia has made all other women so indifferent to me, that if I
cannot marry her, my father may dispose of me as he chooses."
"Cannot you forget Cornelia?"
"It is impossible. Every day I resolve to think of her no more, and
then I continue thinking; and every day I am more and more in love with
her. Her very name moves me beyond words."
"There is no name, George, however sweet and dear, however lovingly
spoken, whose echo does not at last grow faint."
"Cornelia will echo in my heart as long as my heart beats."
Then they were silent, and Hyde drew his dog closer and watched the
blaze among some lighter branches, which a servant had just brought in.
At his entrance he had also given Annie a letter, which she was eagerly
reading. Hyde had no speculation about it; and even when he found Annie
regarding him with her whole soul in her face, he failed to understand,
as he always had done, the noble love which had been so long and so
faithfully his--a love holding itself above endearments;
self-repressed, self-sacrificing, kept down in the inmost heart-chamber
a dignified prisoner behind very real bars. Yet he was conscious that
the letter was of more than usual interest, and when the servant had
closed the door behind him, he asked, "Whom is your letter from, Annie?
It seems to please you very much."
She leaned forward to him with the paper in her little trembling hand,
and said,
"It is from Cornelia."
"My God!" he ejaculated; and the words were fraught with such feeling,
as could have found no other vehicle of expression.
"She has sent you, dear George, a copy of the letter you ought to have
received more than two years ago. Read it."
His eyes ran rapidly over the sweet words, his face flamed, his hands
trembled, he cried out impetuously--
"But what does it mean? Am I quite in my senses? How has this letter
been delayed? Why do I get only a copy?"
"Because Mr. Van Ariens has the original."
"It is all incredible. What do you mean, Annie? Do not keep me in such
torturing suspense."
"It means that Mr. Van Ariens asked Cornelia to marry him on the same
day that you wrote to her about your marriage. She answered both
letters in the same hour, and misdirected them."
"GOD'S DEATH! How can I punish so mean a scoundrel? I will have my
letter from him, if I follow him round the world for it."
"You have your letter now. I asked Cornelia to write it again for you;
and you see she has done it gladly."
"Angel of goodness! But I will have my first letter."
"It has been in that man's keeping for more than two years. I would not
touch it. 'Twould infect a gentleman, and make of him a rascal just as
base."
"He shall write me then an apology in his own blood. I will make him do
it, at the point of my sword."
"If I were you, I would scorn to wet my sword in blood so base."
"Remember, Annie, what this darling girl suffered. For his treachery
she nearly died. I speak not of my own wrong--it is as nothing to hers."
"However, she might have been more careful."
"Annie, she was in the happy hurry of love. Your calm soul knows not
what a confusing thing that is--she made a mistake, and that sneaking
villain turned her mistake into a crime. By a God's mercy, it is found
out--but how? Annie! Annie, how much I owe you! What can I say? What
can I do?"
"Be reasonable. Mary Damer really found it out. His guilty restless
conscience forced him to tell her the story, though to be sure he put
the wrong on people he did not name. But I knew so much of the mystery
of your love sorrow, as to put the two stories together, and find them
fit. Then I wrote to Cornelia."
"How long ago?"
"About two months."
"Why then did you not give me hope ere this?"
"I would not give you hope, till hope was certain. Two years is a long
time in a girl's life. It was a possible thing for Cornelia to have
forgotten--to have changed."
"Impossible! Quite impossible! She could not forget. She could not
change. Why did you not tell me? I should have known her heart by mine
own."
"I wished to be sure," repeated Annie, a little sadly.
"Forgive me, dear Annie. But this news throws me into an unspeakable
condition. You see that I must leave for America at once."
"No. I do not see that, George."
"But if you consider--"
"I have been considering for two months. Let me decide for you now, for
you are not able to do so wisely. Write at once to Cornelia, that is
your duty as well as your pleasure. But before you go to her, there are
things indispensable to be done. Will you ask Doctor Moran for his
child, and not be able to show him that you can care for her as she
deserves to be cared for? Lawyers will not be hurried, there will be
consultations, and engrossings, and signings, and love--in your
case--will have to wait upon law."
"'Tis hard for love, and harder perhaps for anger to wait. For I am in
a passion of wrath at Van Ariens. I long to be near him. Oh what
suffering his envy and hatred have caused others!"
"And himself also. Be sure of that, or he had not tried to find some
ease in a kind of confession. Doctor Roslyn will tell you that it is an
eternal law, that wherever sin is, sorrow will answer it."
"The man is hateful to me."
"He has done a thing that makes him hateful; but perhaps for all that,
he has been so miserable about it, as to have the pity of the
Uncondemning One. I hear your father coming. I am sure you will have
his sympathy in all things."
She left the room as the Earl entered it. He was in unusually high
spirits. Some political news had delighted him, and without noticing
his son's excitement he said--
"The Commons have taken things in their own hands, George. I said they
would. They listen to the King and the Lords very respectfully, and
then obey themselves. Most of the men in the Lower House are unfit to
enter it."
"Well, sir, the Lords as a rule send them there--you have sent three of
them yourself--and unfit men in public places, suppose prior unfitness
in those who have the places to dispose of. But the government is not
interesting. I have something else, father, to think about."
"Indeed, I think the government is extremely interesting. It is very
like three horses arranged in tandem fashion--first, you know, the
King, a little out of the reach of the whip; then the Lords follow the
King, and the Commons are in the shafts, a more ignoble position, but
yet--as we see to-day, possessing a special power of upsetting the
coach."
"Father, I have very important news from America. Will you listen to
it?"
"Yes, if you will tell it to me straight, and not blunder about your
meaning." "Sir, I have just discovered that a letter sent to me more
than two years ago, has been knowingly and purposely detained from me."
"By whom?"
"A man into whose hands it fell by misdirection."
"Did the letter contain means of identifying it, as belonging to you?"
"Ample means."
"Then the man is outside your recognition. You might as well go to the
Bridewell, and seek a second among its riff-raff of scoundrels. Tell me
shortly whom it concerns."
"Miss Moran."
"Oh indeed! Are we to have that subject opened again?"
His face darkened, and George, with an impetuosity that permitted no
interruption, told the whole story. As he proceeded the Earl became
interested, then sympathetic. He looked with moist eyes at the youth so
dear to him, and saw that his heart was filled with the energy and
tenderness of his love. His handsome face, his piercingly bright eyes,
his courteous, but obstinately masterful manner, his almost boyish
passion of anger and impatience, his tall, serious figure, erect, as if
ready for opposition; even that sentiment of deadly steel, of being
impatient to toss his sheath from his sword, pleased very much the
elder man; and won both his respect and his admiration. He felt that
his son had rights all his own, and that he must cheerfully and
generously allow them.
"George," he answered, "you have won my approval. You have shown me
that you can suffer and be faithful, and the girl able to inspire such
an affection, must be worthy of it. What do you wish to do?"
"I am going to America by the next packet."
"Sit down, then we can talk without feeling that every word is a last
word, and full of hurry and therefore of unreason. You desire to see
Miss Moran without delay, that is very natural."
"Yes, sir. I am impatient also to get my letter."
"I think that of no importance."
"What would you have done in my case, and at my age, father?"
"Something extremely foolish. I should have killed the man, or been
killed by him. I hope that you have more sense. Society does not now
compel you to answer insult with murder. The noble not caring of the
spirit, is beyond the mere passion of the animal. What does Annie say?"
"Annie is an angel. I walk far below her--and I hate the man who has so
wronged--Cornelia. I think, sir, you must also hate him."
"I hate nobody. God send, that I may be treated the same. George, you
have flashed your sword only in a noble quarrel, will you now stain it
with the blood of a man below your anger or consideration? You have had
your follies, and I have smiled at them; knowing well, that a man who
has no follies in his youth, will have in his maturity no power. But
now you have come of age, not only in years but in suffering cheerfully
endured and well outlived; so I may talk to you as a man, and not
command you as a father."
"What do you wish me to do, sir?"
"I advise you to write to Miss Moran at once. Tell her you are more
anxious now to redeem your promise, than ever you were before. Say to
her that I already look upon her as a dear daughter, and am taking
immediate steps to settle upon you the American Manor, and also such
New York property as will provide for the maintenance of your family in
the state becoming your order and your expectations. Tell her that my
lawyers will go to this business to-morrow, and that as soon as the
deeds are in your hand, you will come and ask for the interview with
Doctor Moran, so long and cruelly delayed."
"My dear father! How wise and kind you are!"
"It is my desire to be so, George. You cannot, after this unfortunate
delay, go to Doctor Moran without the proofs of your ability to take
care of his daughter's future."
"How soon can this business be accomplished?"
"In about three weeks, I should think. But wait your full time, and do
not go without the credentials of your position. This three or four
weeks is necessary to bring to perfection the waiting of two years."
"I will take your advice, sir. I thank you for your generosity."
"All that I have is yours, George. And you can write to this dear girl
every day in the interim. Go now and tell her what I say. I had other
dreams for you as you know--they are over now--I have awakened."
"Dear Annie!" ejaculated George.
"Dear Annie!" replied the Earl with a sigh. "She is one of the
daughters of God, I am not worthy to call her mine; but I have sat at
her feet, and learned how to love, and how to forgive, and how to bear
disappointment. I will tell you, that when Colonel Saye insulted me
last year, and I felt for my sword and would have sent him a letter on
its point--Annie stepped before him. 'Forget, and go on, dear uncle,'
she said; and I did so with a proud, sore heart at first, but quite
cheerfully in a week or two; and at the last Hunt dinner he came to me
with open hand, and we ate and drank together, and are now firm
friends. Yet, but for Annie, one of us might be dead; and the other
flying like Cain exiled and miserable. Think of these things, George.
The good of being a son, is to be able to profit from your father's
mistakes."
They parted with a handclasp that went to both hearts, and as Hyde
passed his mother's loom, he went in, and told her all that happened to
him, She listened with a smile and a heartache. She knew now that the
time had come to say "farewell" to the boy who had made her life for
twenty-seven years. "He must marry like the rest of the world, and go
away from her," and only mothers know what supreme self-sacrifice a
pleasant acquiescence in this event implies. But she bravely put down
all the clamouring selfishness of her long sweet care and affection,
and said cheerfully--
"Very much to my liking is Cornelia Moran, She is world-like and
heaven-like, and her good heart and sweet nature every one knows. A
loving wife and a noble mother she will make, and if I must lose thee,
my Joris, there is no girl in America that I like better to have thee."
"Never will you lose me, mother."
"Ah then! that is what all sons say. The common lot, I look for nothing
better. But see now! I give thee up cheerfully. If God please, I shall
see thy sons and daughters; and thy father has been anxious about the
Hydes. He would not have a stranger here--nor would I. Our hope is in
thee and thy sweet wife, and very glad am I that thy wife is to be
Cornelia Moran."
And even after Joris had left her she smiled, though the tears dropped
down upon her work. She thought of the presents she would send her
daughter, and she told herself that Cornelia was an American, and that
she had made for her, with her own hands and brain, a lovely home
wherein HER memory must always dwell. Indeed she let her thoughts go
far forward to see, and to listen to the happy boys and girls who might
run and shout gleefully through the fair large rooms, and the sweet
shady gardens her skill and taste had ordered and planted. Thus her
generosity made her a partaker of her children's happiness, and whoever
partakes of a pleasure has his share of it, and comes into contact--not
only with the happiness--but with the other partakers of that
happiness--a divine kind of interest for generous deeds, which we may
all appropriate.
Nothing is more contagious than joy, and Hyde was now a living joy
through all the house. His voice had caught a new tone, his feet a more
buoyant step, he carried himself like a man expectant of some glorious
heritage. So eager, so ardent, so ready to be happy, he inspired every
one with his buoyant gladness of heart. He could at least talk to
Cornelia with his pen every day, yes, every hour if he desired; and if
it had been possible to transfer in a letter his own light-heartedness,
the words he wrote would have shone upon the paper.
The next morning Mary Damer called. She knew that a letter from
Cornelia was possible, and she knew also that it would really be as
fateful to herself, as to Hyde. If, as she suspected, it was Rem Van
Ariens who had detained the misdirected letter, there was only one
conceivable result as regarded herself. She, an upright, honourable
English girl, loving truth with all her heart, and despising whatever
was underhand and disloyal, had but one course to take--she must break
off her engagement with a man so far below her standard of simple
morality. She could not trust his honour, and what security has love in
a heart without honour?
So she looked anxiously at Annie as she entered, and Annie would not
keep her in suspense. "There was a letter from Miss Moran last night,"
she said. "She loves George yet. She re-wrote the unfortunate letter,
and this time it found its owner. I think he has it next his heart at
this very moment."
"I am glad of that, Annie. But who has the first letter?"
"I think you know, Mary."
"You mean Mr. Van Ariens?"
"Yes."
"Then there is no more to be said. I shall write to him as soon as
possible."
"I am sorry--"
"No, no! Be content, Annie. The right must always come right. Neither
you nor I could desire any other end, even to our own love story."
"But you must suffer."
"Not much. None of us weep if we lose what is of no value. And I have
noticed that the happiness of any one is always conditioned by the
unhappiness of some one else. Love usually builds his home out of the
wrecks of other homes. Your cousin and Cornelia will be happy, but
there are others that must suffer, that they may be so. I will go now,
Annie, because until I have written to Mr. Van Ariens, I shall not feel
free. And also, I do not wish him to come here, and in his last letter
he spoke of such an intention."
So the two letters--that of Hyde to Cornelia, and that of Mary Darner
to Van Ariens, left England for America in the same packet; and though
Mary Darner undoubtedly had some suffering and disappointment to
conquer, the fight was all within her. To her friends at the Manor she
was just the same bright, courageous girl; ready for every emergency,
and equally ready to make the most of every pleasure.
And the tone of the Manor House was now set to a key of the highest joy
and expectation. Hyde unconsciously struck the note, for he was happily
busy from morning to night about affairs relating either to his
marriage, or to his future as the head of a great household. All his
old exigent, extravagant liking for rich clothing returned to him. He
had constant visits from his London tailor, a dapper little artist, who
brought with him a profusion of rich cloth, silk and satin, and who
firmly believed that the tailor made the man. There were also endless
interviews with the family lawyer, endless readings of law papers, and
endless consultations about rights and successions, which Hyde was glad
and grateful to leave very much to his father's wisdom and generosity.
At the beginning of this happy period, Hyde had been sure that the
business of his preparations would be arranged in three weeks; a month
had appeared to be a quite unreasonable and impossible delay; but the
month passed, and it was nearly the middle of November when all things
were ready for his voyage. His mother would then have urged a
postponement until spring, but she knew that George would brook no
further delay; and she was wise enough to accept the inevitable
cheerfully. And thus by letting her will lead her, in the very road
necessity drove her, she preserved not only her liberty, but her desire.
Some of these last days were occupied in selecting from her jewels
presents for Cornelia, with webs of gold and silver tissues, and
Spitalfields silks so rich and heavy, that no mortal woman might hope
to outwear them. To these Annie added from her own store of lace, many
very valuable pieces; and the happy bridegroom was proud to see that
love was going to send him away, with both arms full for the beloved.
The best gift however came last, and it was from the Earl. It was not
gold or land, though he gave generously of both these; but one which
Hyde felt made his way straight before him, and which he knew must have
cost his father much self-abnegation. It was the following letter to
Dr. John Moran.
MY DEAR SIR:
It seems then, that our dear children love each other so well, that it
is beyond our right, even as parents, to forbid their marriage. I ask
from you, for my son, who is a humble and ardent suitor for Miss
Moran's hand, all the favour his sincere devotion to her deserves, We
have both been young, we have both loved, accept then his affection as
some atonement for any grievance or injustice you remember against
myself. Had we known each other better, we should doubtless have loved
each other better; but now that marriage will make us kin, I offer you
my hand, with all it implies of regret for the past, and of respect for
the future. Your servant to command,
RICHARD HYDE.
"It is the greatest proof of my love I can give you, George," said the
Earl, when the letter had been read; "and it is Annie you must thank
for it. She dropped the thought into my heart, and if the thought has
silently grown to these written words, it is because she had put many
other good thoughts there, and that these helped this one to come to
perfection."
"Have you noticed, father, how small and fragile-looking she is? Can
she really be slowly dying?"
"No, she is not dying; she is only going a little further away--a
little further away, every hour. Some hour she will be called, and she
will answer, and we shall see her no more--HERE. But I do not call that
dying, and if it be dying, Annie will go as calmly and simply, as if
she were fulfilling some religious rite or duty. She loves God, and she
will go to Him."
The next morning Hyde left his father's home forever. It was impossible
that such a parting should be happy. No hopes, no dreams of future joy,
could make him forget the wealth of love he was leaving. Nor did he
wish to forget. And woe to the man or woman who would buy composure and
contentment by forgetting!--by really forfeiting a portion of their
existence--by being a suicide of their own moral nature.
The day was a black winter day, with a monotonous rain and a dark sky
troubled by a ghostly wind. Inside the house the silence fell on the
heart like a weight. The Earl and Countess watched their son's carriage
turn from the door, and then looked silently into each other's face.
The Earl's lips were firmly set, and his eyes full of tears; the
Countess was weeping bitterly. He went with her to her room, and with
all his old charm and tenderness comforted her for her great loss.
At that moment Annie was forgotten, yet no one was suffering more than
she was. Hyde had knelt by her sofa, and taken her in his arms, and
covered her face with tears and kisses, and she had not been able to
oppose a parting so heart-breaking and so final. The last tears she was
ever to shed dropped from her closed eyes, as she listened to his
departing steps; and the roll of the carriage carrying him away
forever, seemed to roll over her shrinking heart. She cried out
feebly--a pitiful little shrill cry, that she hushed with a sob still
more full of anguish. Then she began to cast over her suffering soul
the balm of prayer, and prostrate with closed eyes, and hands feebly
hanging down, Doctor Roslyn found her. He did not need to ask a
question, he had long known the brave self-sacrifice that was
consecrating the child-heart suffering so sharply that day; and he said
only--
"We are made perfect through suffering, Annie."
"I know, dear father."
"And you have found before this, that the sorrow well borne is full of
strange joys--joys, whose long lasting perfumes, show that they were
grown in heaven and not on earth."
"This is the last sorrow that can come to me, father."
"And my dear Annie, you would have been a loser without it. Every grief
has its meaning, and the web of life could not be better woven, if only
love touched it."
"I have been praying, father."
"Nay, but God Himself prayed in you, while your soul waited in deep
resignation. God gave you both the resignation and the answer."
"My heart failed me at the last--then I prayed as well as I could."
"And then, visited by the NOT YOURSELF in you, your head was lifted up.
Do not be frightened at what you want. Strive for it little by little.
All that is bitter in outward things, or in interior things, all that
befalls you in the course of a day, is YOUR DAILY BREAD if you will
take it from His hand."
Then she was silent and quite still, and he sat and watched the gradual
lifting of the spirit's cloud--watched, until the pallor of her face
grew luminous with the inner light, and her wide open eyes saw, as in a
vision, things, invisible to mortal sight; but open to the spirit on
that dazzling line where mortal and immortal verge.
And as he went home, stepping slowly through the misty world, he
himself hardly knew whether he was in the body or out of it. He felt
not the dripping rain, he was not conscious of the encompassing earthly
vapours, he had passed within the veil and was worshipping
"In dazzling temples opened straight to Him,
Where One who had great lightnings for His crown
Was suddenly made present; vast and dim
Through crowded pinions of the Cherubim."
And his feet stumbled not, nor was he aware of anything around, until
the Earl met him at the park gates and touching him said reverently--
"Father, you are close to the highway. Have you seen Annie?"
"I have just left her."
"She is further from us than ever."
"Richard Hyde," he answered, "she is on her way to God, and she can
rest nothing short of that."