Books: The Maid of Maiden Lane
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Amelia E. Barr >> The Maid of Maiden Lane
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[Illustration: "SHE WAVED HIM AN ADIEU"]
While Cornelia listened, she became suddenly conscious of the powerful
magnetism of some human eye, and obeying its irresistible attraction she
saw George Hyde steadily regarding her. He stood by the side of his
father, as handsome as on that May morning when he had first looked love
into her heart. She was enthralled again by his glance, and never for
one moment thought of resisting the appeal it made to her. With a
conscious tenderness she waved him an adieu whose spirit he could not
but feel. In the same moment he lifted his hat and stood bareheaded
looking at her with a pathetic inquiry, which made her inwardly cry out,
"Oh, what does he mean?" The packet was moving--the wind filled the
blowing sails--the hoarse crying of the sailormen blended with the
"good-byes" of the passengers--and the Earl, aware of the sad and
silent parting within his sight--moved away as Cornelia again waved a
mute farewell to her lost lover. Then the Doctor touched her--
"Why do you do that?" he asked angrily.
"Because I must do it, father; I cannot help it. I desire to do it."
"I am in a hurry; let us go home."
Filling her eyes with the beauty of the splendid looking youth still
standing bareheaded watching her, seeing even such trivial things as his
long cloak thrown backward over his shoulder, his white hand holding his
lifted hat, and the wind-tossed curls of his handsome head, she turned
away with a sigh. The Doctor drove rapidly to Maiden Lane and did not on
the way speak a word; and Cornelia was glad of it. That image of her
lover standing on the moving ship watching her with his heart in his
eyes, filled her whole consciousness. Never would it be possible for her
to forget it, or to put any other image in its place. She thanked her
good angel for giving her such a comforting memory; it seemed as if the
sting had been taken out of her sorrow. Henceforward she was resolved to
love without a doubt. She would believe in Joris, no matter what she had
seen, or what she had heard. There were places in life to which alas!
truth could not come; and this might be one of them. Though all the
world blamed her lover, she would excuse him. Her heart might ache, her
eyes might weep, but in that aching heart and in those weeping eyes, his
splendid image would live in that radiant dimness which makes the unseen
face, often more real than the present one.
Doctor Moran divined something of this resolute temper, and it made him
silent. He felt that his daughter had come to a place where she had put
reason firmly aside, and given her whole assent to the assurances of her
intuition. He had no arguments for an antagonism of this kind. What
could he say to a soul that presaged a something, and then believed it?
His instinctive sagacity told him that silence was now the part of
wisdom. But though he took her silently home he was conscious of a great
relief. His watch was over.
Now a woman's intuition is like a leopard's spring, it seizes the truth
--if it seize it at all--at the first bound; and it was by this
unaccountable mental agility Cornelia had arrived at the conviction of
her lover's fidelity. At any rate, she felt confident, that if
circumstances had compelled him to be false to her, the wrong had been
sincerely mourned; and she was able to forgive the offence that was
blotted out with tears. She reflected also, that now he was so far away,
it would be possible for her to call upon Madame Van Heemskirk, and also
upon Madame Jacobus as soon as she returned; but if Hyde had remained in
New York, these houses would necessarily be closed to her, for he was a
constant visitor at both.
She resolved therefore to call upon Madame Van Heemskirk the following
week. She expected the old lady might treat her a little formally,
perhaps even with some coldness, but she thought it worth while to test
her kindness. Joris had once told her that his grandfather and
grandmother both approved their love, and they must know of his
desertion, and also of the reason for it. Yet there was in her heart
such a reluctance to take any step that had the appearance of seeking
her lost lover, that she put off this visit day after day, finding in
the weather or in some household duty always a fair excuse for doing so,
until one morning the Doctor said at breakfast:
"Councillor De Vrees died yesterday, and there is to be a great funeral.
Every Dutchman in town will be there, and many others beside, He has
left an immense fortune."
"Who told you this?" asked Mrs. Moran.
"I met Van Heemskirk and his wife going there. Madame De Vrees is their
daughter. Now you will see great changes take place."
"What do you mean, John?"
"Madame De Vrees has long wanted to build a mansion equal to their
wealth, but the Councillor would never leave the house he built at their
marriage. Madame will now build, and her children take their places
among the great ones of the city. De Vrees was an oddity; very few
people will be sorry to lose him. He had no good quality but money, and
he was the most unhappy of men about its future disposal. I never
understood until I knew him, how wretched a thing it is to be merely
rich."
This conversation again put off Cornelia's visit, and she virtually
abandoned the idea. Then one morning Mrs. Moran said, "Cornelia, I wish
you to go to William Irvin's for some hosiery and Kendal cottons. It is
a new store down the Lane at number ninety, and I hear his cloths are
strangely cheap. Go and examine them for me."
"Very well, mother. I will also look in at Fisher's;" and it was at
Fisher's that she saw Madame Van Heemskirk. She was talking to Mr. Henry
Fisher as they advanced from the back of the store, and Cornelia had
time to observe that madame was in deep mourning, and that she had grown
older looking since she had last seen her. As they came forward madame
raised her eyes and saw Cornelia, and then hastily leaving the merchant,
she approached her.
"Good-morning, madame," said Cornelia, with a cheerful smile.
"Good-morning, miss. Step aside once with me. A few words I have to say
to you;" and as she spoke she drew Cornelia a little apart from the
crowd at the counter, and looking at her sternly, said--
"One question only--why then did you treat my grandson so badly? A
shameful thing it is to be a flirt."
"I am not a flirt, madame. And I did not treat your grandson badly. No,
indeed!"
"Yes, indeed! He told me so himself."
"He told you so?"
"He told me so. Surely he did."
"That I treated him badly?"
"Pray then what else? You let a young man love you--you let him tell you
so--you tell him 'yes, I love you' and then when he says marry me, you
say, 'no.' Such ways I call bad, very bad! Not worthy of my Joris are
you, and so then, I am glad you said 'no.'"
"I do not understand you."
"Neither did you understand my Joris--a great mistake he made--and he
did not understand you; and I do not understand such ways of the girls
of this day. They are shameless, and I am ashamed for you."
"Madame, you are very rude."
"And very false are you."
"I am not false."
"My Joris told me so. Truth itself is Joris. He would not lie. He would
not deceive."
"If your grandson told you I had deceived him, and refused to marry
him,--let it be so. I have no wish to contradict your grandson."
"That you cannot do. I am ashamed--"
"Madame, I wish you good morning;" and with these words Cornelia left
the store. Her cheeks were burning; the old lady's angry voice was in
her ears, she felt the eyes of every one in the store upon her, and she
was indignant and mortified at a meeting so inopportune. Her heart had
also received a new stab; and she had not at the moment any philosophy
to meet it. Joris had evidently told his grandmother exactly what the
old lady affirmed. She had not a doubt of that, but why? Why had he lied
about her? Was there no other way out of his entanglement with her? She
walked home in a hurry, and as soon as possible shut herself in her room
to consider this fresh wrong and injustice.
She could arrive at only one conclusion--Annie's most unexpected
appearance had happened immediately after his proposal to herself. He
was pressed for time, his grandparents would be especially likely to
embarrass him concerning her claims, and of course the quickest and
surest way to prevent questioning on the matter, was to tell them that
she had refused him. That fact would close their mouths in sympathy for
his disappointment, and there would be no further circumstances to clear
up. It was the only explanation of madame's attitude that was possible,
and she was compelled to accept it, much as it humiliated her. And then
after it had been accepted and sorrowed over, there came back to her
those deeper assurances, those soul assertions, which she could not
either examine or define, but which she felt compelled to receive--He
loves me! I feel it! It is not his fault! I must not think wrong of him.
There was still Madame Jacobus to hope for. She was so shrewd and so
kindly, that Cornelia felt certain of her sympathy and wise advice. But
month after month passed away and madame's house remained empty and
forlorn-looking. Now and then there came short fateful letters from
Arenta, and Van Ariens--utterly miserable--visited them frequently that
he might be comforted with their assurances of his child's ability to
manage the very worst circumstances in which she could be placed.
And so the long summer days passed and the winter approached again; but
before that time Cornelia had at least attained to the wisest of all the
virtues--that calm, hushed contentment, which is only another name for
happiness--that contentment which accepts the fact that there is a chain
of causes linked to effects by an invincible necessity; and that
whatever is, could not have wisely been but so. And if this was
fatalism, it was at least a brighter thing than the languid pessimism,
which would have led her life among quicksands, to end it in wreck.
One day at the close of October she put down her needlework with a
little impatience. "I am tired of sewing, mother," she said, "and I will
walk down to the Battery and get a breath of the sea. I shall not stay
long."
On her way to the Battery she was thinking of Hyde, and of their
frequent walks together there; and for once she passed the house of
Madame Jacobus without a glance at its long-closed windows. It was
growing dark as she returned, and ere she quite reached it she was aware
of a glow of fire light and candle light from the windows. She quickened
her steps, and saw a servant well known to her standing at the open door
directing two men who were carrying in trunks and packages. She
immediately accosted him.
"Has madame returned at last, Ameer?" she asked joyfully.
"Madame has returned home," he answered. "She is weary--she is not
alone--she will not receive to-night."
"Surely not. I did not think of such a thing. Tell her only that I am
glad, and will call as soon as she can see me."
The man's manner--usually so friendly--was shy and peculiar, and
Cornelia felt saddened and disappointed. "And yet why?" she asked
herself. "Madame has but reached home--I did not wish to intrude upon
her--Ameer need not have thought so--however I am glad she is back
again"--and she walked rapidly home to the thoughts which this
unexpected arrival induced. They were hopeful thoughts, leaning--however
she directed them--towards her absent lover. She felt sure madame would
see clearly to the very bottom of what she could not understand. She
went into her mother's presence full of renewed expectations, and met
her smile with one of unusual brightness.
"Madame Jacobus is at home," said Mrs. Moran, before Cornelia could
speak. "She sent for your father just after you left the house, and I
suppose that he is still there."
"Is she sick?"
"I do not know. I fear so, for the visit is a long one."
It continued so much longer that the two ladies took their tea alone,
nor could they talk of any other subject than madame, and her most
unexpected call for Doctor Moran's services." It was always the Dutch
Doctor Gansvoort she had before," said Mrs. Moran; "and she was ever
ready to scoff at all others, as pretenders.--I do wonder what keeps
your father so long?"
It was near ten o'clock when Doctor Moran returned, and his face was
sombre and thoughtful--the face of a man who had been listening for
hours to grave matters, and who had not been able to throw off their
physical reflection.
"Have you had tea, John?" asked Mrs. Moran.
"No. Give me a good strong cup, Ava. I am tired with listening and
feeling."
She poured it out quickly, and after he had taken the refreshing drink,
Cornelia asked--
"Is madame very ill?"
"She is wonderfully well. It is her husband."
"Captain Jacobus?"
"Who else? She has brought him home, and I doubt if she has done
wisely."
"What has happened, John? Surely you will tell us!"
"There is nothing to conceal. I have heard the whole story--a very
pitiful story--but yet like enough to end well, Madame told me that the
day after her sister-in-law's burial, James Lauder, a Scotchman who had
often sailed with Captain Jacobus, came down to Charleston to see her.
He had sought her in New York, and been directed by her lawyer to
Charleston. He declared that having had occasion to go to Guy's Hospital
in London to visit a sick comrade, he saw there Captain Jacobus. He
would not admit any doubt of his identity, but said the Captain had
forgotten his name, and everything in connection with his past life; and
was hanging about the premises by favour of the physicians, holding
their horses, and doing various little services for them."
"Oh how well I can imagine madame's hurry and distress," said Cornelia.
"She hardly knew how to reach London quickly enough. She said thought
would have been too slow for her. But Lauder's tale proved to be true.
Her first action was to take possession of the demented man, and
surround him with every comfort. He appeared quite indifferent to her
care, and she obtained no shadow of recognition from him. She then
brought to his case all the medical skill money could procure, and in
the consultation which followed, the physicians decided to perform the
operation of trepanning."
"But why? Had he been injured, John?"
"Very badly. The hospital books showed that he had been brought there by
two sailors, who said he had been struck in a gale by a falling mast.
The wound healed, but left him mentally a wreck. The physicians decided
that the brain was suffering from pressure, and that trepanning would
relieve, if it did not cure."
"Then why was it not done at first?"
"Whose interest was it to inquire? No money was left with the injured
man. The sailors who took him to the hospital gave false names, and
address, and he received only such treatment as a pauper patient was
likely to receive. But he made friends, and was supported about the
place. Imagine now what a trial was before madame! It was a difficult
matter to perform the operation, for the patient could not be made to
understand its necessity; and he was very hard to manage. Then picture
to yourselves, the terrible strain of nursing which followed; though
madame says it was soon brightened and lightened by her husband's
recognition of her. After that event all weariness was rest, and
suffering ease; and as soon as he was able to travel both were
determined to return at once to their own home. He is yet however a sick
man, and may never quite recover a slight paralysis of the lower limbs."
"Does he remember how he was hurt?"
"He declares his men mutinied, because instead of returning to New
York, he had taken on a cargo for the East India Company; and that the
blow was given him either by his first, or second mate. He thinks they
sailed his ship out of the Thames, for her papers were all made out, and
she was ready to drop down the river with the next tide. He vows he will
get well and find his ship and the rascals that stole her; and I should
not wonder if he does. He has will enough for anything. Madame desires
to see you, Cornelia. Can you go there with me in the morning?"
"I shall be glad to go. Madame is like no one else."
"She is not like herself at present. I think you may be a little
disappointed in her. She has but one thought, one care, one end and aim
in life--her husband."
The Doctor had judged correctly. Cornelia was disappointed from the
first moment. She was taken to the dim uncanny drawing-room by Ameer,
and left among its ill-omened gods, and odd treasure-trove for nearly
half an hour before madame came to her. The rudely graven faces, so
marvellously instinct with life, made her miserable; she fancied a
thousand mockeries and scorns in them; and no thought of Hyde, or
Arenta, or of the happy hours spent in that ill-boding room, could charm
away its sinister influence.
When madame at length came to her, she appeared like the very genius of
the place. The experiences of the past year had left traces which no
after experience would be able to obliterate. She looked ten years
older. Her wonderful dark eyes, glowing with a soft tender fire alone
remained untouched by the withering hand of anxious love. They were as
vital as ever they had been, and when Cornelia said so, she answered,
"That is because my soul dwells in them, and my soul is always young. I
have had a year, Cornelia, to crumble the body to dust; but my soul made
light of it for love's sake. Did your father tell you how much Captain
Jacobus had suffered?"
"Yes, madame."
But in spite of this assurance, madame went over the whole story in
detail, and Cornelia could not help but remember that Mr. Van Ariens had
said "about her husband she will talk constantly, and to the whole
town." For however far the conversation diverged for a moment, madame
always brought it sharply back to the one subject that interested her.
Even Arenta's peculiarly dangerous position could not detain her
thoughts and interest for many minutes.
"I am sorry for Arenta," she said; "no greater hell can there be, than
to live in constant fear. But she has the gift of a clever tongue, and
every one has not the like talent; and also if a woman with the decency
of her sex may be a scholar, Arenta has learning enough to compass the
fools who might injure her."
"Marat and Robespierre are both against her husband, and she may share
his fate."
"Marat and Robespierre!" she cried. "Both of the creatures have a
devil. I wish them to go to the guillotine together, and I would bury
them together with their faces downwards. Let them pass out of your
memory. Poor Jacobus was in a worse case than Arenta. Till I be key-cold
dead, I shall never forget my first sight of him in that dreadful place--"
and then she described again her overwhelming emotions when she
perceived he was alike apathetic to his pauper condition, and to her
love and presence. There never came a moment during the whole visit when
it was possible to speak of Hyde. Madame seemed to have quite forgotten
her liking for the handsome youth; it had been swallowed up in her
adoring affection for her restored husband.
Cornelia would not force the memory upon her. Some day she might
remember; but for a little while madame had more than enough of fresh
material for her conversation. Every one who had known Captain Jacobus
or herself, called with congratulations for their happy return; and when
Cornelia made a nearly daily visit with her father, madame had these
calls to talk over with her.
One morning, however, the long-looked-for topic was introduced. "I had a
visit from Madame Van Heemskirk yesterday afternoon," she said; "and the
dear old Senator came with her to see Captain Jacobus. While they
talked, madame told me that you had refused that handsome young fellow,
her grandson. What could you mean by such a stupidity, Miss Moran?"
Her voice had just that tone of indifference, mingled with sarcastic
disapproval, that hurt and offended Cornelia. She felt that it was not
worth while to explain herself, for madame had evidently accepted the
offended grandmother's opinion; and the memory of the young Lord was
lively enough to make her sympathize with his supposed wrong.
"I never considered you to be a flirt," she continued, "and I am
astonished. If, now, it had been Arenta, I could have understood it. I
told Madame Van Heemskirk that I had not the least doubt Doctor Moran
dictated the refusal."
"Oh, indeed," answered Cornelia, with a good deal of spirit and some
anger, "you shall not blame my father. He knew nothing whatever of Lord
Hyde's offer, until I had been subjected to such insult and wrong as
drove me to the grave's mouth. Only the mercy of God, and my father's
skill, brought me back to life."
"Yes, I think your father to be wonderfully skilful. He has done Jacobus
a great deal of good, and he now gives him hope of a perfect recovery.
Doctor Moran is a fine physician; Jacobus says so."
Cornelia remained silent. If madame did not feel interest sufficient in
her affairs to ask for the particulars of one so nearly fatal to her,
she determined not to force the subject on her. Then Jacobus rang his
bell, and madame flew to his room to see whether his want had received
proper attention. Cornelia sat still a few moments, her heart swelling,
her eyes filling with the sense of that injustice, harder to bear than
any other form of wrong. She was going away, when madame returned to
her, and something in her eyes went to the heart of the older woman. She
turned her back, with a kind but peremptory word, and taking her hand,
said--
"I have been thoughtless, Cornelia, selfish, I dare say; but I do not
wish to be so. Tell me, my dear, what has happened. Did you quarrel with
George Hyde? And pray what was it about?"
"We never had one word of any kind, but words of affection. He wrote and
asked me if he could come and see my father about our marriage, on a
certain night. I answered his letter with all the love that was in my
heart for him, and told him to come and see my father that very night.
He never came. He never sent me the least explanation. He never wrote to
me, or spoke to me again."
"Oh, but this is a different story! His grandmother told me that you
refused him."
"That is not the truth. Lady Annie Hyde came most unexpectedly that very
day, and I suppose the easiest way to stop all inquiries about Miss
Moran, was to say 'she refused me.'"
"And after Lady Annie's arrival, what happened?"
"I was absolutely deserted. That is the truth. I may as well admit it.
Perhaps you think it impossible for a young man so good-natured to
behave in a manner so cruel and dishonourable; but I assure you it is
the truth."
"My dear, I have lived to see it almost impossible to think worse of
people than they are; and if you can bear to hear more on this subject,
I will tell it to you myself."
"I can always bear the truth. If I have lost my heart, I have not lost
my head; nor will I surrender to useless grief the happiness which I can
yet make for others, and for myself."
"If what you have told me be so--and I believe it is--then I say Lord
George Hyde is an intolerable scoundrel."
"I would rather not hear him spoken of in that way."
"I ask your pardon, but I must give myself a little Christian liberty of
railing. The man is false clean through. He was evidently engaged to
Lady Annie when he first sought your love, and therefore as soon as she
came here, he deserted you. I will tell you plainly that I saw him last
summer very frequently, and he was always with her--always listening
with ears and heart to what she said--always watching her with all his
soul in his eyes--ever on the lookout to see that not a breath of wind
ruffled her soft wraps, or blew too strongly on her little white face."
"That was his way, madame. I have seen him devoting himself to you in
the same manner; yes, and to Madame Griffin, and Miss White, and a score
of other ladies--old and young. You know how good-natured he was. When
did you hear him say a wrong word of any one? even of Rem Van Ariens who
was often intolerably rude."
"Very well! I would rather have a man 'intolerably rude' like my nephew
Rem, than one like Lord Hyde who speaks well of everybody. Upon my word,
I think that is the worst kind of slander!"
"I think not."
"It is; for it takes away the reputation of good men, by making all men
alike. But this, that, or the other, I saw Lord Hyde in devoted
attendance on Lady Annie. Give him up totally. He is in his kingdom when
he has a pretty woman to make a fool of. As for marriage, these young
men who have the world, or the better part of it, they marry where
Cupidity, not Cupid leads them. Give him up entirely."
"I have done so," answered Cornelia. And then she felt a sudden anger at
herself, so much so, that as she walked home, she kept assuring her
heart with an almost passionate insistence, "I have not given him up! I
will not give him up! I believe in him yet."
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