Books: The Maid of Maiden Lane
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Amelia E. Barr >> The Maid of Maiden Lane
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"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."
"Money, or station, or such things find their match in money, or
station, or such things.--They are not love."
"Well then the three may go together in this case. But the girl has an
uncanny, unworldlike face. Captain Wiley says he has seen mermaids with
the same long look in their eyes. Do you know that Rem Van Ariens has
gone to Boston?"
"We have heard so;"--and then the Doctor entered, and after the usual
formalities said, "I have just met Earl Hyde and his Countess parading
themselves in the fine carriage he brought with him, 'Tis a thousand
pities the President did not wait in New York to see the sight."
"Was Lady Annie with them?" asked Mrs. Wiley, "we were just talking
about her."
"Yes, but one forgets that she is there--or anywhere. She seems as if
she were an accident."
"And the young lord?"
"The young lord affects the democratic."
Such conversations were not uncommon, and Mrs. Moran could not with any
prudence put a sudden stop to them. They kept Cornelia full of wondering
irritation, and gradually drove the doubt into her soul--the doubt of
her lover's sincerity which was the one thing she could not fight
against. It loosened all the props of life; she ceased to struggle and
to hope. The world went on, but Cornelia's heart stood still; and at the
end of the third week things came to this--her father looked at her
keenly one morning and sent her instantly to bed. At the last the
breakdown had come in a night, but it had found all ready for it.
"She has typhoid, or I am much mistaken," he said to the anxious mother.
"Why have you said nothing to me? How has it come about? I have heard no
complaining. To have let things go thus far without help is dreadful--it
is almost murder."
"John! John! What could I do? She could not bear me to ask after her
health. She said always that she was not sick. She would not hear of my
speaking to you. I thought it was only sorrow and heart-ache."
"Only sorrow and heart-ache. Is not that enough to call typhoid or any
other death? What is the trouble? Oh I need not ask, I know it is that
young Hyde. I feel it. I saw this trouble coming; now let me know the
whole truth."
He listened to it with angry amazement. He said he ought to have been
told at the time--he threw aside all excuses--for being a man how could
he understand why women put off, and hope, and suffer? He was sure the
rascal ought to have been brought to explanation the very first day:--
and then he broke down and wept his wife's tears, and echoed all her
piteous moan for her daughter's wronged love and breaking heart.
"What is left us now, is to try and save her dear life," said the
miserable father." Suffering we cannot spare her. She must pass alone
through the Valley of the Shadow; but it may be she will lose this
sorrow in its dreadful paths. I have known this to happen often; for
THERE the soul has to strip itself of all encumbrances, and fight for
life, and life only."
This was the battle waged in Doctor Moran's house for many awful weeks.
The girl lay at Death's door, and her father and mother watched every
breath she drew. One day, while she was in extremity, the Doctor went
himself to the apothecary's for medicine. This medicine was his last
hope and he desired to prepare it himself. As be came out of the store
with it in his hand, Hyde looked at him with a steady imploration. He
had evidently been waiting his exit.
"Sir!" he said, "I have heard a report that I cannot, I dare not
believe."
"Believe the worst--and stand aside, sir. I have neither patience nor
words for you."
"I beseech you, sir--"
"Touch me not! Out of my sight! Broadway is not wide enough for us two,
unless you take the other side."
"Your daughter? Oh sir, have some pity!"
"My daughter is dying."
"Then sir, let me tell you, that your behaviour has been so brutal to
her, and to me, that the Almighty shows both kindness and intelligence
in taking her away:"--and with these words uttered in a blazing passion
of indignation and pity, the young lord crossed to the other side of the
street, leaving the Doctor confounded by his words and manner.
"There is something strange here," he said to himself; "the fellow may
be as bad as bad can be, but he neither looked nor spoke as if he had
wronged Cornelia. If she lives I must get to the bottom of this affair.
I should not wonder if it is the work of Dick Hyde--earl or general--as
detestable a man as ever crossed my path."
With this admission and wonder, the thought of Hyde passed from his
mind; for at that hour the issue he had to consider was one of life or
death. And although it was beyond all hope or expectation, Cornelia came
back to life; came back very slowly, but yet with a solemn calm and a
certain air of conscious dignity, as of one victorious over death and
the grave. But she was perilously delicate, and the Doctor began to
consider the dangers of her convalescence.
"Ava," he said one evening when Cornelia had been downstairs awhile--"it
will not do for the child to run the risk of meeting that man. I see him
on the street frequently. The apothecary says he comes to his store to
ask after her recovery nearly every day. He has not given her up, I am
sure of that. He spoke to me once about her, and was outrageously
impudent. There is something strange in the affair, but how can I move
in it?"
"It is impossible. Can you quarrel with a man because he has deceived
Cornelia? How cruel that would be to the child! You must bear and I must
bear. Anything must be borne, rather than set the town wondering and
talking."
"It is a terrible position. I see not how I can endure it."
"Put Cornelia before everything."
"The best plan is to remove Cornelia out of danger. Why not take her to
visit your brother Joseph? He has long desired you to do so."
"Go to Philadelphia NOW! Joseph tells me Congress is in session, and the
city gone mad over its new dignity. Nothing but balls and dinners are
thought of; even the Quakers are to be seen in the finest modes and
materials at entertainments; and Cornelia will hardly escape the fever
of fashion and social gaiety. She has many acquaintances there."
"I do not wish her to escape it. A change of human beings is as
necessary as a change of air, or diet. She has had too much of George
Hyde, and Madame Jacobus, and Rem Van Ariens."
"I hear that Rem is greatly taken with Boston, and thinks of opening an
office there."
"Very prudent of Rem. What chance has he in New York with Hamilton and
Burr, to carry off all the big prey? Make your arrangements as soon as
possible to leave New York."
"You are sure that you are right in choosing Philadelphia?"
"Yes--while Hyde is in New York. Write to your brother to-day; and as
soon as Cornelia is a little stronger, I will go with you to
Philadelphia."
"And stay with us?"
"That is not to be expected. I have too much to do here,"
CHAPTER X
LIFE TIED IN A KNOT
One morning soon after the New Year, Hyde was returning to the Manor
House from New York. It was a day to oppress thought, and tighten the
heart, and kill all hope and energy. There was a monotonous rain and a
sky like that of a past age--solemn and leaden--and the mud of the roads
was unspeakable. He was compelled to ride slowly and to feel in its full
force, as it were, the hostility of Nature. As he reached his home the
rain ceased, and a thick mist, with noiseless entrance, pervaded all the
environment; but no life, or sound of life, broke the melancholy sense
of his utter desolation.
He took the road by the lake because it was the nearest road to the
stables, where he wished to alight; but the sight of the livid water,
and of the herons standing motionless under the huge cedars by its
frozen edges, brought to speech and expression that stifled grief, which
Nature this morning had intensified, not relieved.
"Those unearthly birds!" he said petulantly, "they look as if they had
escaped the deluge by some mistake. Oh if I could forget! If I could
only forget! And now she has gone! She has gone! I shall never see her
again! "Grief feels it a kind of luxury to repeat some supreme cry of
misery, and this lamentation for his lost love had this poignant
satisfaction. He felt New York to be empty and void and dreary, and the
Manor House with its physical cheer and comfort, and its store of
affection, could not lift the stone from his heart.
In spite of the chilling mist the Earl had gone to see a neighbour about
some land and local affairs, and his mother--oblivious of the coronet of
a countess--was helping her housekeeper to make out the list of all
household property at the beginning of the year 1792. She seemed a
little annoyed at his intrusion, and recommended to him a change of
apparel. Then he smiled at his forlorn, draggled condition, and went to
his room.
Now it is a fact that in extreme dejection something good to eat, and
something nice to wear, will often restore the inner man to his normal
complacency; and when Hyde's valet had seen to his master's refreshment
in every possible way, Hyde was at least reconciled to the idea of
living a little longer. The mud-stained garments had disappeared, and as
he walked up and down the luxurious room, brightened by the blazing oak
logs, he caught reflections of his handsome person in the mirror, and he
began to be comforted. For it is not in normal youth to disdain the
smaller joys of life; and Hyde was thinking as his servant dressed him
in satin and velvet, that at least there was Annie. Annie was always
glad to see him, and he had a great respect for Annie's opinions. Indeed
during the past few weeks they had been brought into daily
companionship, they had become very good friends. So then the absence of
the Earl and the preoccupation of his mother was not beyond comfort, if
Annie was able to receive him. In spite of his grief for Cornelia's
removal from New York, he was not insensible to the pleasure of Annie's
approval. He liked to show himself to her when he knew he could appear
to advantage; and there was nothing more in this desire, than that
healthy wish for approbation that is natural to self-respecting youth.
He heard her singing as he approached the drawing-room, and he opened
the door noiselessly and went in. If she was conscious of his entrance
she made no sign of it, and Hyde did not seem to expect it. He glanced
at her as he might have glanced at a priest by the altar, and went
softly to the fireside and sat down. At this moment she had a solemn,
saintly beauty; her small pale face was luminous with spiritual joy, her
eyes glowing with rapture, and her hands moving among the ivory keys of
the piano made enchanting melody to her inspired longing
Jerusalem the golden,
With milk and honey blest,
Beneath thy contemplation
Sink heart and voice oppressed.
O one, O only mansion,
O paradise of joy!
Where tears are ever banished
And smiles have no alloy.
O sweet and blessed country!
Shall I ever see thy face?
O sweet and blessed country!
Shall I ever win thy grace?
and as these eager impassioned words rose heavenward, it seemed to Hyde
that her innocent, longing soul was half-way out of her frail little
body. He did not in any way disturb her. She ceased when the hymn was
finished and sat still a few moments, realizing, as far as she could,
the glory which doth not yet appear. As her eyes dropped, the light
faded from her face; she smiled at Hyde, a smile that seemed to light
all the space between them. Then he stood up and she came towards him.
No wonder that strangers spoke of her as a child; she had the size and
face and figure of a child, and her look of extreme youth was much
accentuated by the simple black gown she wore, and by her carriage, for
she leaned slightly forward as she walked, her feet appearing to take no
hold upon the floor; a movement springing INTERIORLY from the soul
eagerness which dominated her. Hyde placed her in a chair before the
fire, and then drew his own chair to her side.
"Cousin," she said, "I am most glad to see you. Everybody has some work
to do to-day."
"And you, Annie?"
"In this world I have no work to do," she answered. "My soul is here for
a purchase; when I have made it I shall go home again." And Hyde looked
at her with such curious interest that she added--"I am buying
Patience."
"O indeed, that is a commodity not in the market."
"I assure you it is. I buy it daily. Once I used to wonder what for I
had come to earth. I had no strength, no beauty, nothing at all to buy
Earth's good things with. Three years ago I found out that I had come to
buy for my soul, the grace of Patience. Do you remember what an
imperious, restless, hard-to-please, hard-to-serve girl I was? Now it is
different. If people do not come on the instant I call them, I rock my
soul to rest, and say to it 'anon, anon, be quiet, soul.' If I suffer
much pain--and that is very often--I say Soul, it is His Will, you must
not cry out against it. If I do not get my own way, I say, Soul, His Way
is best; and thus, day by day, I am buying Patience."
"But it is not possible this can content you. You must have some other
hope and desire, Annie?"
"Perhaps I once had--and to-day is a good time to speak of it to you,
because now it troubles me no longer. You know what my father desired,
and what your father promised, for us both?"
"Yes. Did you desire it, Annie?"
"I do not desire it now. You were ever against it?"
"Oh Annie!--"
"It makes no matter, George. I shall never marry you."
"Do you dislike me so much?"
"I am very fond of you. You are of my race and my kindred, and I love
every soul of the Hydes that has ever tarried on this earth."
"Well then?"
"I shall marry no one. I will show you the better way. Few can walk in
it, but Doctor Roslyn says, he thinks it may be my part--my happy part--
to do so:" and as she spoke she took from the little pocket at her
side a small copy of the gospels, and it opened of its own account at
the twentieth chapter of St. Luke. "See!" she said, "and read it for
yourself, George--"
"The children of this world marry and are given in marriage. But they
which shall be accounted worthy to obtain that world, and the
resurrection from the dead, neither marry, nor are given in marriage.
"Neither can they die any more; for they are equal unto the angels, and
are the children of God, being the children of the resurrection."
[Footnote: St. Luke, chap. xx. 34-36.]
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