Books: The Maid of Maiden Lane

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"And she promises to come often to see me when I return to England. I
wonder what we have been brought together for. There must be a reason
for a meeting so unlikely--Can it be Cornelia?"

"'Tis the most improbable of suppositions. I do not suppose she ever saw
Cornelia."

"She had not even heard of her--and yet my mind will connect them."

"You have no reason to do so; and it is beyond all likelihood. I am
sorry I went away from Mary."

"She took no notice of your desertion."

"That is, as maybe. I was a mere lad when I saw her last. Is she
passable?"

"She is extremely handsome. My aunt heard that she is to marry a Boston
gentleman of good promise and estate. I dare say it is true."

It was so true that even while they were speaking of the matter Mary was
writing these words to her betrothed :" Yesterday I met the Hydes. You
know my father has the living of Downhill Market from them, and I had a
constraint on me to be agreeable. The young Lord got out of my way. Did
he imagine I had designs on him? I look for a better man. What fate
brought us together in Philadelphia, I know not. I may see a great deal
of them in the coming summer, and then I may find out. At present I will
dismiss the Hydes. I have met pleasanter company."

Annie dismissed the subject with the same sort of impatience. It seemed
to no one a matter of any importance, and even Annie that day had none
of the penetrative insight which belongs to

"that finer atmosphere,
Where footfalls of appointed things,
Reverberant of days to be,
Are heard in forecast echoings,
Like wave beats from a viewless sea."

As for Hyde, he was shaken, confused, lifted off his feet, as it were;
but after another day had passed, he had come to one steady resolution--
HE WOULD SPEAL TO CORNELIA WHEN NEXT HE MET HER, NO MATTER WHERE IT WAS,
OR WHO WAS WITH HER. And that passionate stress of spirit which induced
this resolve, led him also to go out and seek for this opportunity.

For nearly a week he kept this conscious, constant watch. Its insisting
sorrowful longing was like a cry from Love's watch towers, but it did
not reach the beloved one; or else she did not answer it. One bright
morning he resolved to walk through the great dry goods stores--
Whiteside's, Guest's, and the famous Mrs. Holland's, where the beauties
of the "gay Quakers" bought their choicest fabrics in foreign chintzes,
lawns, and Indian muslins. All along Front, Arch, and Walnut Streets,
the pavements were lumbered with boxes and bales of fine imported goods,
and he was getting impatient of the bustle and pushing, when he saw
Anthony Clymer approaching him. The young man was driving a new and very
spirited team, and as he with some difficulty held them, he called to
Hyde to come and drive with him. Hyde was just in the weary mood that
welcomed change, and he leaped to his friend's side, and felt a sudden
exhilaration in the rapid motion of the buoyant, active animals. After
an hour's driving they came to a famous hostelry, and Clymer said, "Let
us give ourselves lunch, and the horses bait and a rest, then we will
make them show their mettle home again."

The proposal met with a hearty response, and the young men had a
luxurious meal and more good wine than they ought to have taken. But
Hyde had at last found some one who could talk of Cornelia; rave of her
face and figure, and vow she was the topmost beauty in Philadelphia. He
listened, and finally asked where she dwelt, and learned that she was
staying with Mr. Theodore Willing, a wealthy gentleman of the strictest
Quaker principles, but whose son was one of the "feeble men or wet
Quakers" who wore powder and ruffles and dressed like a person of
fashion.

"He dangles around the bewitching Miss Moran, and gives no other man a
chance," said Clymer spitefully. "It is the talk from east to west, and
'tis said, he is so enamoured of the beauty, that he will have her, if
he buy her."

"Do you talk in your sleep? Or do you tell your dreams for truth?" asked
Hyde angrily. "'Tis not to be believed that a girl so lovely can be
bought by mere pounds sterling. A woman's heart lies not so near her
hand--God's mercy for it! or any fool might seize it."

"What are you raging at? She is not your mistress."

"Let us talk of horses--or politics--or the last play--or anything but
women. They breed quarrels, if you do but name them."

"Content. I will tell you a good story about Tom Herring,"

The story was evidently a good one, for Hyde laughed at the recital with
a noisy merriment very unusual to him. The champ and gallop of the
horses, and Clymer's vociferous enjoyment of his own wit, blended with
it; and for a moment or two Hyde was under a physical exhilaration as
intoxicating as the foam of the champagne they had been drinking. In the
height of this meretricious gaiety, a carriage, driving at a rather
rapid rate turned into the road; and Cornelia suddenly raised her eyes
to the festive young men, and then dropped them with an abrupt, even
angry expression.

Hyde became silent and speechless, and Clymer was quickly infected by
the very force and potency of his companion's agitation and distressed
surprise. He heard him mutter, "Oh this is intolerable!" and then, it
was, as if a cold sense of dislike had sprung up between them.--Both
were glad to escape the other's company, and Hyde fled to the privacy of
his own room, that he might hide there the almost unbearable chagrin and
misery this unfortunate meeting had caused him.

"Where shall I run to avoid myself?" he cried as he paced the floor in
an agony of shame. "She will never respect me again. She ought not. I am
the most wretched of lovers. Such a tom-fool to betray me as Anthony
Clymer! A man like a piece of glass, that I have seen through a dozen
times!" Then he threw himself into a chair and covered his face with his
hands, and wept tears full of anger and shameful distress.

For some days sorrow, and confusion, and distraction bound his senses;
he refused all company, would neither eat, nor sleep, nor talk, and he
looked as white and wan as a spectre. A stupid weight, a dismal sullen
stillness succeeded the storm of shame and grief; and he felt himself to
be the most forlorn of human beings. If it had been only possible to
undo things done! he would have bought the privilege with years. At
length, however, the first misery of that wretched meeting passed away,
and then he resolved to forget.

"It is all past!" he said despairingly. "She is lost to me forever! Her
memory breaks my heart! I will not remember any longer! I will forfeit
all to forgetfulness. Alas, alas, Cornelia! Though you would not believe
me, it was the perfectest love that I gave you!"

Cornelia's sorrow, though quite as profound, was different in character.
Her sex and various other considerations taught her more restraint; but
she also felt the situation to be altogether unendurable, and after a
few moments of bitterly eloquent silence, she said--

"Mother, let us go home. I can bear this place no longer. Let us go home
to-morrow. Twice this past week I have been made to suffer more than you
can imagine. The man is apparently worthless--but I love him."

"You say 'apparently' Cornelia?"

"Oh, how can I tell? There may be excuses--compulsions--I do not know
what. I am only sure of one thing, that I love and suffer."

For despite all reason, despite even the evidence of her own eyes,
Cornelia kept a reserve. And in that pitiful last meeting, there had
been a flash from Hyde's eyes, that said to her--she knew not what of
unconquerable love and wrong and sorrow--a flash swifter than lightning
and equally potential. It had stirred into tumult and revolt all the
platitudes with which she had tried to quiet her restless heart; made
her doubtful, pitiful and uncertain of all things, even while her
lover's reckless gaiety seemed to confirm her worst suspicions. And she
felt unable to face constantly this distressing dubious questioning, so
that it was with almost irritable entreaty she said, "Let us go home,
mother."

"I have desired to do so for two weeks, Cornelia," answered Mrs. Moran.
"I think our visit has already been too long."

"My Cousin Silas has now begun to make love to me; and his mother and
sisters like it no better than I do. I hate this town with its rampant,
affected fashion and frivolities! It is all a pretence! The people are
naturally saints, and they are absurd and detestable, scheming to make
the most of both worlds--going to meeting and quoting texts--and then
playing that they are men and women of fashion. Mother, let us go home
at once. Lucinda can pack our trunks to-day, and we will leave in the
morning."

"Can we go without an escort?"

"Oh yes, we can. Lucinda will wait on us--she too is longing for New
York--and who can drive us more carefully than Cato? And my dear mother,
if Silas wants to escort us, do not permit him. Please be very positive.
I am at the end of my patience. I am like to cry out! I am so unhappy,
mother!"

"My dear, we will go home to-morrow. We can make the journey in short
stages. Do not break down now, Cornelia. It is only a little longer."

"I shall not break down--if we go home." And as the struggle to resist
sorrow proves the capacity to resist it, Cornelia kept her promise. As
they reached New York her cheerfulness increased, and when they turned
into Maiden Lane, she clapped her hands for very joy. And oh, how
delightful was the pleasant sunny street, the familiar houses, the brisk
wind blowing, the alert cheerful looking men and women that greeted each
other in passing with lively words, and bright smiles! O how delightful
the fresh brown garden, in which the crocuses were just beginning to
peep, the bright looking home, the dear father running with glad
surprise to greet them, the handsome, pleasant rooms, the refreshing
tea, the thousand small nameless joys that belong to the little darling
word "HOME."

She ran upstairs to her own dear room, laid her head on her pillow, sat
down in her favourite chair, opened her desk, let in all the sunshine
she could, and then fell with holy gratitude on her knees and thanked
God for her sweet home, and for the full cup of mercies He had given her
to drink in it.

When she went downstairs the mail had just come in, and the Doctor sat
before a desk covered with newspapers and letters. "Cornelia," he cried
in a voice full of interest, "here is a letter for you--a long letter.
It is from Paris."

"It is from Arenta!" she exclaimed, as she examined the large sheets
closed with a great splash of red wax, bearing the de Tounnerre crest.
It had indeed come from Paris, the city of dreadful slaughter, yet
Cornelia opened it with a smiling excitement, as she said again:--

"It is from Arenta!"

CHAPTER XI

WE HAVE DONE WITH TEARS AND TREASONS

"Here is a letter from Arenta!" repeated the Doctor to his wife, who was
just entering the room, "Come, Ava, and listen to what she has to say. I
have no doubt it will be interesting." Then Cornelia read aloud the
following words:

MY DEAR FRIEND CORNELIA:

If to-day I could walk down Maiden Lane, if to-day I could see you and
talk to you, I should imagine myself in heaven. For as to this city, I
think that in hell the name of "Paris" must have spread itself far and
wide. Indeed I often wonder if I am yet on the earth, or if I have gone
away in my sleep to the country of the devil and his angels. Even as I
am writing to you, my pen is shaking with terror, for I hear the tumbrel
come jolting along, and I know that it is loaded with innocent men and
women who are going to the guillotine; and I know also that it is
accompanied by a mob of dreadful creatures--mostly women--for I hear
them singing--no, screaming--in a kind of rage,

"Ca ira les aristocrates a la lanterne!"

Do you remember our learning in those happy days at Bethlehem of the
slaughter of Christians by Nero? Very well; right here in the Paris of
Marat and Robespierre, you may hear constantly the same brutal cry that
filled the Rome of the Caesars--"DEATH TO THE CHRISTIANS!" Famine,
anarchy, murder, are everywhere; and I live from moment to moment,
trembling if a step comes near me. For Athanase is imprudence itself.
His opinions will be the death of him. He will not desert the
Girondists, though Mr. Morris tells him their doom is certain. Marat is
against them, and the Jacobins--who are deliriously wicked--are against
them, and the mob of the Faubourgs is against them; and this mob is
always of one mind, always on the spot, and always hungry and ready for
anarchy and blood. Besides which, they are already accused of having
sold themselves to Mr. Pitt. Very often I have heard my dear father
talking of universal suffrage as the bulwark of liberty; well then, we
have now, and here, an universal suffrage that is neither a fraud nor a
fiction; and as Athanase says, "it is expressing itself every minute, in
the crimes of the Holy Guillotine."

And yet Paris makes a pretence of being gay and of enjoying itself. We
go to the theatre and the opera, and we dance, as it were, red, wet-shod
to the hideous strains of the Carmagnole. It is indeed a dance of death.
The other night we were at a reception given by Madame Talma to the
victorious General Dumouriez. All the Brissot party were there. Your
father will remember Brissot de Warville very well. He was greatly
petted by Mrs. Jay and the aristocracy of New York and Philadelphia.
Jefferson made a friend of him, and even Washington talked with him
about his book on our country. Then he passed himself off as a noble,
but he is really the son of an innkeeper. I had so often heard of him,
that I regarded with interest his pale face and grave, melancholy
manner. He was accompanied by Camille Desmoulins, and by Danton; the
latter a man almost terrible in his ugliness. David, the painter of
Socrates, was there; he had his hair frizzed, and was dressed
splendidly; and with him was Chenier, more tragic looking than any of
his plays. The salons were filled with flowers and beautiful women;
among them the majestic Madame Vestris, and the lovely Mademoiselle
Candeille, who was singing a song when there arose a sudden
indescribable noise, growing louder and louder, and then the cry of
MARAT! MARAT! and the "Friend of the People" entered. Now I shall spare
a few minutes to tell you, that no one has made frightful enough his
large bony face, his thin lips and his livid complexion. He wore an old
carmagnole, a dirty handkerchief twisted about his neck, leather
breeches, shoes without stockings, and a piece of red cotton round his
head, from which there hung a few locks of greasy hair. A nervous
twitching keeps him constantly moving, and he has the leprosy:--this is
well known. He walked straight to Dumouriez, who said disdainfully, "Ah!
are you the man they call Marat?" Marat immediately demanded from him an
account of military measures he had taken. They had some sharp
conversation which I did not hear, and Marat finally went away uttering
the most insulting threats, and leaving every one in a state of mortal
terror. The next day the newsboys were shouting "the discovery of a
great plot by Marat, the Friend of the People! Great meeting of
Aristocrats at Talmas, etc."

This is the kind of pleasure we have; as to religion, there is no longer
any religion. Everywhere the Almighty is spoken of as the "soi-disant
God." The monarchy is abolished, and yet so ignorant are the leaders of
the people, that when Brissot mentioned the word Republic in Petion's
house, Robespierre said with a grin, "Republic! Republic! what's a
republic?" Spying, and fear, and death penetrate into the most private
houses; above all, fear, constant fear of every one with whom you come
in contact. This feeling is so universal, that some one has conjugated
it thus--I am afraid--Thou art afraid--He is afraid--We are afraid--
You are afraid--They are afraid--For as death has been officially
declared "an endless sleep" any crime is possible; the mob have no fear
of hell, and as for the guillotine, it is their opera and their
perpetual comedy. Very soon these things must bring on France the
chastisement of the Lord; and I shall not be sorry for it.

I have told you the truth about our condition, because I have just had a
letter from my father, and he talks of leaving his business in Claus
Bergen's care, and coming here to look after me. You must convince him,
that he could do me no good whatever, and that he might do me much harm.
He is outspoken as a Zealander, and what is in his head and his heart,
would come to his lips; also, if it should come to flight, he would
embarrass me very much. Tell him not to fear; Arenta says, not to fear.
I may indeed have to take a seat in "the terrible armchair" [Footnote:
The chair in which the accused sat before the Revolutionary Tribunal and
from which they usually went to the guillotine.] but I shall not go to
the guillotine; I know that. While Minister Morris is here I have a
friend that can do all that can be done. I have had a few letters from
Rem, but they do not satisfy me. He is in love, AND NOT WITH YOU. Will
you please inform me what that means? Say to Aunt Angelica that I am
astonished at her silence; and ask our good Domine to pray that I may
soon return to a country where God reigns. Never again do I wish to
spend one minute in a place where there is no God; for whatever they may
call that place, its real name is hell. Write me a long letter and tell
me all the news of New York, and with my respectful remembrance to your
dear father and mother, I am always your loving friend, ARENTA, MARQUISE
DE TOUNNERRE.

"Poor Arenta!" said the Doctor when Cornelia had finished the wretched
epistle. "She is however showing the mettle of the race from which she
sprang. The spirit of the men who fought Alva is in her, and I think she
will be a match for Marat, if it comes to that. Suppose you go and see
Van Ariens, and give him all the comfort you can. Are you too weary?"

"I should like to see him, I am not tired now. Home is such a good
doctor."

"I think you will find him in his house. He comes from his office very
early these days."

Cornelia crossed the street and was going to knock at the door, when Van
Ariens hastily opened it. His broad face shone with pleasure, and when
Cornelia told him her errand, he was in a hurry of loving anxiety to
hear what his child had written.

"I understand," he said, when he had heard the letter. "She is
frightened, the poor little one! but she will smile and say 'it is
nothing.' That is her way. However, I yet think I must go to her."

"Do not," urged Cornelia. "France is now at war with Holland, and you
would be recognized as a Dutchman."

"That is so. My tongue would tell tales on me; and to go--even to
heaven--by the guillotine, is not what a good man would wish. No
indeed!"

"And you may see by Arenta's letter, that she does not fear the
guillotine. Come over to-night and talk to my father and mother, and I
will tell you what I saw in Philadelphia."

"Well then, I will come."

"Is Madame Jacobus back in New York yet?"

"She is in London."

"But why in London?"

"That, I know not. Two reasons I can suppose, but which is right, or if
either be right, that is beyond my certainty."

"Is her sister-in-law dead?"

"She is dead. Her husband was an Englishman; perhaps then it is about
some property in England she has gone. If it is not that, of nothing
else can I think but Captain Jacobus. But my sister Angelica had ever
two ways--nothing at all she would say about her money or her business;
but constantly, to every one, she would talk of her husband. I think
then it is money or property that has taken her to England. For if it
had been Jacobus, to the whole town she would have told it." Then he
took both Cornelia's hands in his, and looking at her earnestly said--

"Poor Rem! Impossible is it?"

"Quite impossible, sir," she answered.

"When he got thy letter refusing his love and offer, he went to Boston.
I think he will not come back to me. I am very sorry," he said simply,
and he let her hands drop.

"I am sorry also--for your sake. I hear however that Rem is doing well
in Boston."

"Better than his hopes. Very good fortune has come to him."

"And you, sir?"

"I am not doing much at present--but Smith and Warren do less. In an
hour or two to your house I will come. There is plenty to talk about."

The next day Cornelia walked down Broadway to Madame Jacobus' house. It
was closed and desolate looking, and she sighed as she compared its old
bright spotless comfort, with its present empty forlornness. The change
typified the change in her heart and love, but ere she could entertain
the thought, her eyes fell upon the trees in the garden, full of the
pale crinkled leaves of spring, and she saw the early flowers breaking
through the dark earth, and the early shrubs bursting into white and
golden blooms. In some way they had a message for her; and she went home
with hope budding in her heart. Soon after Mrs. Moran heard her singing
at her work,

"The far east glows,
The morning wind blows fresh and free;
Should not the hour that wakes the rose
Awaken thee?
No longer sleep--
Oh listen now!
I wait and weep,
But where art thou?"

From one to another song she went, simple melodies all of them,
delightful little warblings of love, which except for their gladness and
loyalty, had nothing in them to charm.

She was a deserted maiden. Her lover had palpably and with extreme
cruelty deceived her; but she had grieved, and forgiven. And love brings
its reward, even if unrequited. Those who love, and have loved, are the
better for the revelation; for love for love's sake enriches and blesses
the lover to the very end of life. She did not forget, for love has
everlasting remembrance; and she did not wish to forget, for a great
affection is a great happiness, and the whole soul can find shelter in
it.

Neither were her days monotonous or unhappy. All the real pleasures of
life lie in narrow compass; and she found herself very often a little
hurried for want of time. She had not, it is true, the resources of the
woman of to-day--no literary, musical, social, or sporting clubs existed
for Cornelia; but she had duties and devices that made every moment
pleasant or profitable. Many hours daily were given to fine needlework--
calm quiet hours full of thought as well as work; she had her music to
practice, new books and papers to read, calls to make, mantua makers and
milliners to interview, dinners and dances and tea-parties to attend,
shopping to look after, delicate bits of darning and mending to exercise
her skill on, creams and pasties and cakes to prepare, visitors to
welcome and entertain, and many other duties which sprang up--as extras
do--unexpectedly, and yet which opened the door for very pleasant
surprises and events.

Besides which, there was her father. After her return from school she
had always driven with him to some extent; but his claim on her now was
often a little exacting. He said the fresh spring winds were good for
her, and that she stayed in the house too much, and there was no evading
the dictum that came with both parental and medical authority. Perhaps
this demand upon her time would not have been made if the Hydes had been
in New York; but Doctor Moran by frequent inquiries satisfied himself
that they were yet in Philadelphia; and for his daughter's satisfaction
he frequently said as they drove up Maiden Lane, "We will take the
Greenwich Road, there is no fear of our meeting any one we do not wish
to see." She understood the allusion, and was satisfied to escape
meetings that promised her nothing but pain.

In the month of May there occurred one of those wet spells which are so
irritating "growing weather" of course, but very tiresome to those who
felt the joy of spring escaping them. Week after week it was too damp,
or the winds were too sharp, or the roads too heavy for quick driving,
and thus the month of all months went out of the calendar with few red
letter days to brighten it. Then June came in royally, and Cornelia was
glad of the sunshine and the breeze and the rapid canter; and for a week
or two she was much out with her father. But he was now ever on the
watch, and she judged from the circumstance that the Hydes were back in
New York. Besides which, he did not any longer give her the assurance of
not meeting any one they did not wish to see.

One exquisite day as they went up Maiden Lane the Doctor said--" My
friend General Hewitt sails for England to-day, and we will go and wish
him a good voyage." So to the pier they went, and the Doctor left his
carriage, and taking Cornelia on his arm walked down to where the
English packet was lying. They were a little too late to go on board,
for the shoremen were taking away the gang-plank, and the sailors
preparing to lift the anchor; but the General stood leaning over the
side of the vessel, and exchanged some last words with his friend.

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