The Maid of Maiden Lane

"I have just heard that General Hyde came back this morning. He is now the Right Honourable the Earl of Hyde, and his son is, as you know, Lord George Hyde. Has this made a difference?"

"It has not. Let us count up what is owing to us. After all there is a certain good in gold."

"That is the truth. I am an old man and I have seen what altitudes the want of gold can abase, and what impossible things it makes possible. In any adversity gold can find friends."

"I shall count every half-penny after Blume and Otis."

"Be not too strict—too far east is west. You may lose all by demanding all."

Then the two men spent several hours in going over their accounts, and during this time no one called on Rem and he received no message. When he returned home he found affairs just as he had left them. "So far good," he thought, "I will let sleeping dogs lie. Why should I set them baying about my affairs? I will not do it"—and with this determination in his heart he fell asleep.

But Rem's sleep was the sleep of pure matter; his soul never knew the expansion and enlightenment and discipline of the oracles that speak in darkness. The winged dreams had no message or comfort for him, and he took no counsel from his pillow. His sleep was the sleep of tired flesh and blood, and heavy as lead. But the waking from such sleep—if there is trouble to meet—is like being awakened with a blow. He leaped to his feet, and the thought of his loss and the shame of it, and the horror of the dishonourable thing he had done, assailed him with a brutal force and swiftness. He was stunned by the suddenness and the inexorable character of his trouble. And he told himself it was "best to run away from what he could not fight." He had no fear of Hyde's interference so early in the morning, and once in Boston all attacks would lose much of their hostile virulence, by the mere influence of distance. He knew these were cowardly thoughts, but when a man knows he is in the wrong, he does not challenge his thoughts, he excuses them. And as soon as he was well on the road to Boston, he even began to assume that Hyde, full of the glory of his new position, would doubtless be well disposed to let all old affairs drop quietly "and if so," he mused, "Cornelia will not be so dainty, and I may get 'Yes' where I got 'No.'"

He was of course arguing from altogether wrong premises, for Hyde at that hour was unconscious of his new dignity, and if he had been aware of it, would have been indifferent to its small honour. He had spent a miserable night, and a sense of almost intolerable desertion and injury awoke with him. His soul had been in desolate places, wandering in immense woods, vaguely apprehended as stretches of time before this life. He had called the lost Cornelia through all their loneliness, and answers faint as the faintest echo, had come back to that sense of spiritual hearing attuned in other worlds than this. But sad as such experience was, the sole effort had strengthened him. He was indeed in better case mentally than physically.

"I must get into the fresh air," he said. "I am faint and weak. I must have movement. I must see my mother. I will tell her everything." Then he went to his mirror, and looked with a grim smile at its reflection. "I have the face of a lover kicked out of doors," he continued scornfully. He took but small pains with his toilet, and calling for some breakfast sat down to eat it. Then for the first time in his life, he was conscious of that soul sickness which turns from all physical comfort; and of that singular obstruction in the throat which is the heart's sob, and which would not suffer him to swallow.

"I am most wretched," he said mournfully; "and no trouble comes alone. Of all the days in all the years, why should Madame Jacobus have to take herself out of town yesterday? It is almost incredible, and she could, and would have helped me. She would have sent for Cornelia. I might have pleaded my cause face to face with her." Then angrily— "Faith! can I yet care for a girl so cruel and so false? I am not to be pitied if I do. I will go to my dear mother. Mother-love is always sure, and always young. Whatever befalls, it keeps constant truth. I will go to my mother."

He rode rapidly through the city and spoke to no one, but when he reached his Grandfather Van Heemskirk's house, he saw him leaning over the half-door smoking his pipe. He drew rein then, and the old gentleman came to his side:

"Why art thou here?" he asked. "Is thy father, or Lady Annie sick?"

"I know nothing new. There was no letter yesterday."

"Yesterday! Surely thou must know that they are now at home? Yesterday, very early in the morning, they landed."

"My father at home!"

"That is the truth. Where wert thou, not to know this?"

"I came to town yesterday morning. I had a great trouble. I was sick and kept my room."

"And sick thou art now, I can see that," said Madame Van Heemskirk coming forward—"What is the matter with thee, my Joris?"

"Cornelia has refused me. I know not how it is, that no woman will love me. Am I so very disagreeable?"

"Thou art as handsome and as charming as can be; and it is not Cornelia that has said 'no' to thee, it is her father. Now he will be sorry, for thy uncle is dead and thy father is Earl Hyde, and thou thyself art a lord."

"I care not for such things. I am a poor lord, if Cornelia be not my lady." "I wonder they sent not after thee!"

"They would be expecting me every hour. If there had been a letter I should have gone directly back with it, but it was beyond all surmising, that my father should return. Grandfather, will you see Doctor Moran for me? You can speak a word that will prevail."

"I will not, my Joris. If thy father were not here, that would be different. He is the right man to move in the matter. Ever thou art in too much of a hurry. Think now of thy life as a book of uncut leaves, and do not turn a page till thou hast read it to the very last word."

"I will see Cornelia for thee," said Madame Van Heernskirk. "I will ask the girl what she means. Very often she passes here, sometimes she comes in. I will say to her—why did thou throw my grandson's love away like an old shoe? Art thou not ashamed to be so light of love, for I know well thou said to my Joris, thou loved him. And she will tell me the truth. Yes, indeed, if into my house she comes, out of it she goes not, until I have the why, and the wherefore."

"Do not be unkind to her, grandmother—perhaps it is not her fault—if she had only said a few sorrowful words—Let me show you her letter."

"No," said Van Heernskirk. "One thing at a time, Joris. Now it is the time to go and welcome thy father and thy cousin—too long has been the delay already."

"Then good-bye! Grandmother, you will speak or me?" And she smiled and nodded, and stood on her tiptoe while Joris stooped and kissed her—"Fret not thyself at all. I will see Cornelia and speak for thee." And then he kissed her again and rode away.

Very near the great entrance gates of Hyde Manor he met his father and mother walking. Madame, the Right Honourable the Countess of Hyde, was pointing out the many improvements she had made; and the Earl looked pleased and happy. George threw himself off his horse with a loving impetuosity, and his mother questioned him about his manner of spending the previous day. "How could thou help knowing thy father had landed?" she asked. "Was not the whole city talking of the circumstance?"

"I was not in the city, mother. I went to the post office and from there to Madame Jacobus. She was just leaving for Charleston, and I went with her to the boat."

"What an incredible thing! Madame Jacobus leaving New York! For what? For why?"

"She has gone to nurse her sister-in-law, who is dying. That is of all things the most likely—for she has a great heart."

"You say that—I know not."

"It is the truth itself. Afterwards I had my lunch and then came on a fever and a distracting headache, and I was compelled to keep my room; and so heard nothing at all until my grandfather told me the good news this morning."

"Madame Kippon was on the dock and saw thy father and cousin land. The news would be a hot coal in her mouth till she told it, and I am amazed she did not call at thy lodging. Now go forward; when thy father and I have been round the land, we will come to thee. Thy cousin Annie is here."

"That confounds me. I could hardly believe it true."

"She is frail, and her physicians thought the sea voyage might give her the vitality she needs. It was at least a chance, and she was determined to take it. Then thy father put all his own desires behind him, and came with her. We will talk more in a little while. I see thy dress is untidy, and I dare say thou art hungry. Go, eat and dress, by that time we shall be home."

But though his mother gave him a final charge "to make haste," he went slowly. The thought of Cornelia had returned to his memory with a sweet, strong insistence that carried all before it. He wondered what she was doing—how she was dressed—what she was thinking—what she was feeling–He wondered if she was suffering—if she thought he was suffering—if she was sorry for him—He made himself as wretched as possible, and then some voice of comfort anteceding all reasoning, told him to be of good cheer; for if Cornelia had ever loved him, she must love him still; and if she had only been amusing herself with his devotion, then what folly to break his heart for a girl who had no heart worth talking about.

Poor Cornelia! She was at that moment the most unhappy woman in New York. She had excused the "ten words" he might have written yesterday. She had found in the unexpected return of his father and cousin reason sufficient for his neglect; but it was now past ten o'clock of another day, and there was yet no word from him. Perhaps then he was coming. She sat at her tambour frame listening till all her senses and emotions seemed to have fled to her ear. And the ear has memory, it watches for an accustomed sound, it will not suffer us to forget the voice, the step of those we love. Many footsteps passed, but none stopped at the gate; none came up the garden path, and no one lifted the knocker. The house itself was painfully still; there was no sound but the faint noise made by Mrs. Moran as she put down her Dobbin or her scissors. The tension became distressing. She longed for her father—for a caller—for any one to break this unbearable pause in life.

Yet she could not give up hope. A score of excuses came into her mind; she was sure he would come in the afternoon. He MUST come. She read and reread his letter. She dressed herself with delightful care and sat down to watch for him. He came not. He sent no word, no token, and as hour after hour slipped away, she was compelled to drop her needle.

"Mother," she said, "I am not well. I must go upstairs." She had been holding despair at bay so many hours she could bear it no longer. For she was so young, and this was the first time she had been yoke-fellow with sorrow. She was amazed at her own suffering. It seemed so impossible. It had come upon her so swiftly, so suddenly, and as yet she was not able to seek any comfort or sympathy from God or man. For to do so, was to admit the impossibility of things yet turning out right; and this conclusion she would not admit; she was angry at a word or a look that suggested such a termination.

The next morning she called Balthazar to her and closely questioned him. It had struck her in the night, that the slave might have lost the letter, and be afraid to confess the accident. But Balthazar's manner and frank speech was beyond suspicion. He told her exactly what clothing Lieutenant Hyde was wearing, how he looked, what words he said, and then with a little hesitation took a silver crown piece from his pocket and added "he gave it to me. When he took the letter in his hand he looked down at it and laughed like he was very happy; and he gave me the money for bringing it to him; that is the truth, sure, Miss Cornelia."

She could not doubt it. There was then nothing to be done but wait in patience for the explanation she was certain would yet come. But on with what leaden motion the hours went by! For a few days she made a pretence of her usual employments, but at the end of a week her embroidery frame stood uncovered, her books were unopened her music silent, and she declared herself unable to take her customary walk. Her mother watched her with unspeakable sympathy, but Cornelia's grief was dumb; it made no audible moan, and preserved an attitude which repelled all discussion. As yet she would not acknowledge a doubt of her lover's faith; his conduct was certainly a mystery, but she told her heart with a passionate iteration that it would positively be cleared up.

Now and then the Doctor, or a visitor, made a remark which might have broken this implicit trust, and probably did facilitate that end; for it was evident from them, that Hyde was in health, and that he was taking his share in the usual routine of daily life:—thus, one day Mrs. Wiley while making a call said—

"I met the new Countess and the Lady Annie Hyde, and I can tell you the new Countess is very much of a Countess. As for the Lady Annie," she added, "she was wrapped to her nose in furs, and you could see nothing of her but two large black eyes, that even at a distance made you feel sad and uncomfortable. However Lord George Hyde appeared to be very much her servant."

"There has been talk of a marriage between them," answered Mrs. Moran, for she was anxious to put her daughter out of all question. "I should think it would be a very proper marriage."

"Oh, indeed, 'proper marriages' seldom come off. Love marriages are the fashion at present."

"Are they not the most proper of all?"

"On the contrary, is there anything more indiscreet? Of a thousand couples who marry for love, hardly one will convince us that the thing can be done, and not repented of afterwards."

"I think you are mistaken," said Mrs. Moran coldly. "Love should always seek its match, and that is love—or nothing."

"Oh indeed! It is you are mistaken," continued Mrs. Wiley. "As the times go, Cupid has grown to cupidity, and seeks his match in money or station, or such things."