The Maid of Maiden Lane

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."