The Bow of Orange Ribbon: A Romance of New York

“I know I felt Love’s face
Pressed on my neck, with moan of pity and grace,
Till both our heads were in his aureole.”

The news of the duel spread with the proverbial rapidity of evil news.  At the doors of all the public houses, in every open shop, on every private stoop, and at the street-corners, people were soon discussing the event, with such additions and comments as their imaginations and prejudices suggested.  One party insisted that lawyer Semple was dead; another, that it was the English officer; a third, that both died as they were being carried from the ground.

Batavius, who had lingered to the last moment at the house which he was building, heard the story from many a lip as he went home.  He was bitterly indignant at Katherine.  He felt, indeed, as if his own character for morality of every kind had been smirched by his intended connection with her.  And his Joanna!  How wicked Katherine had been not to remember that she had a sister whose spotless name would be tarnished by her kinship!  He was hot with haste and anger when he reached Van Heemskirk’s house.

Madam stood with Joanna on the front-stoop, looking anxiously down the road.  She was aware that Bram had called for his father, and she had heard them leave the house together in unexplained haste.  At first, the incident did not trouble her much.  Perhaps one of the valuable Norman horses was sick, or there was an unexpected ship in, or an unusually large order.  Bram was a young man who relied greatly on his father.  She only worried because supper must be delayed an hour, and that delay would also keep back the completion of that exquisite order in which it was her habit to leave the house for the sabbath rest.

After some time had elapsed, she went upstairs, and began to lay out the clean linen and the kirk clothes.  Suddenly she noticed that it was nearly dark; and, with a feeling of hurry and anxiety, she remembered the delayed meal.  Joanna was on the front-stoop watching for Batavius, who was also unusually late; and, like many other loving women, she could think of nothing good which might have detained him, but her heart was full only of evil apprehensions.

“Where is Katherine?” That was the mother’s first question, and she called her through the house.  From the closed best parlour, Katherine came, white and weeping.

“What is the matter, then, that you are crying?  And why into the dark room go you?”

“Full of sorrow I am, mother, and I went to the room to pray to God; but I cannot pray.”

“‘Full of sorrow.’  Yes, for that Englishman you are full of sorrow.  And how can you pray when you are disobeying your good father?  God will not hear you.”

The mother was not pitiless; but she was anxious and troubled, and Katherine’s grief irritated her at the moment.  “Go and tell Dinorah to bring in the tea.  The work of the house must go on,” she muttered.  “And I think, that it was Saturday night Joris might have remembered.”

Then she went back to Joanna, and stood with her, looking through the gray mist down the road, and feeling even the croaking of the frogs and the hum of the insects to be an unusual provocation.  Just as Dinorah said, “The tea is served, madam,” the large figure of Batavius loomed through the gathering grayness; and the women waited for him.  He came up the steps without his usual greeting; and his face was so injured and portentous that Joanna, with a little cry, put her arms around his neck.  He gently removed them.

“No time is this, Joanna, for embracing.  A great disgrace has come to the family; and I, who have always stood up for morality, must bear it too.”

“Disgrace!  The word goes not with our name, Batavius; and what mean you, then?  In one word, speak.”

But Batavius loved too well any story that was to be wondered over, to give it in a word; though madam’s manner snubbed him a little, and he said, with less of the air of a wronged man,—­

“Well, then, Neil Semple and Captain Hyde have fought a duel.  That is what comes of giving way to passion.  I never fought a duel.  No one should make me.  It is a fixed principle with me.”

“But what?  And how?”

“With swords they fought.  Like two devils they fought, as if to pieces they would cut each other.”

“Poor Neil!  His fault I am sure it was not.”

“Joanna!  Neil is nearly dead.  If he had been in the right, he would not be nearly dead.  The Lord does not forsake a person who is in the right way.”

In the hall behind them Katherine stood.  The pallor of her face, the hopeless droop of her white shoulders and arms, were visible in its gloomy shadows.  Softly as a spirit she walked as she drew nearer to them.

“And the Englishman?  Is he hurt?”

“Killed.  He has at least twenty wounds.  Till morning he will not live.  It was the councillor himself who separated the men.”

“My good Joris, it was like him.”

For a moment Katherine’s consciousness reeled.  The roar of the ocean which girds our life round was in her ears, the feeling of chill and collapse at her heart.  But with a supreme will she took possession of herself.  “Weak I will not be.  All I will know.  All I will suffer.”  And with these thoughts she went back to the room, and took her place at the table.  In a few minutes the rest followed.  Batavius did not speak to her.  It was also something of a cross to him that madam would not talk of the event.  He did not think that Katherine deserved to have her ill-regulated feelings so far considered, and he had almost a sense of personal injury in the restraint of the whole household.

He had anticipated madam’s amazement and shock.  He had felt a just satisfaction in the suffering he was bringing to Katherine.  He had determined to point out to Joanna the difference between herself and her sister, and the blessedness of her own lot in loving so respectably and prudently as she had done.  But nothing had happened as he expected.  The meal, instead of being pleasantly lengthened over such dreadful intelligence, was hurried and silent.  Katherine, instead of making herself an image of wailing or unconscious remorse, sat like other people at the table, and pretended to drink her tea.

It was some comfort that after it Joanna and he could walk in the garden, and talk the affair thoroughly over.  Katherine watched them away, and then she fled to her room.  For a few minutes she could let her sorrow have way, and it would help her to bear the rest.  And oh, how she wept!  She took from their hiding-place the few letters her lover had written her, and she mourned over them as women mourn in such extremities.  She kissed the words with passionate love; she vowed, amid her broken ejaculations of tenderness, to be faithful to him if he lived, to be faithful to his memory if he died.  She never thought of Neil; or, if she did, it was with an anger that frightened her.  In the full tide of her anguish, Lysbet stood at the door.  She heard the inarticulate words of woe, and her heart ached for her child.  She had followed her to give her comfort, to weep with her; but she felt that hour that Katherine was no more a child to be soothed with her mother’s kiss.  She had become a woman, and a woman’s sorrow had found her.

[Illustration:  Oh, how she wept!]

It was near ten o’clock when Joris came home.  His face was troubled, his clothing disarranged and blood-stained; and Lysbet never remembered to have seen him so completely exhausted.  “Bram is with Neil,” he said; “he will not be home.”

“And thou?”

“I helped them carry—­the other.  To the ‘King’s Arms’ we took him.  A strong man was needed until their work the surgeons had done.  I stayed; that is all.”

“Live will he?”

“His right lung is pierced clean through.  A bad wound in the throat he has.  At death’s door is he, from loss of the blood.  But then, youth he has, and a great spirit, and hope.  I wish not for his death, my God knows.”

“Neil, what of him?”

“Unconscious he was when I left him at his home.  I stayed not there.  His father and his mother were by his side; Bram also.  Does Katherine know?”

“She knows.”

“How then?”

“O Joris, if in her room thou could have heard her crying!  My heart for her aches, the sorrowful one!”

“See, then, that this lesson she miss not.  It is a hard one, but learn it she must.  If thy love would pass it by, think this, for her good it is.  Many bitter things are in it.  What unkind words will now be said!  Also, my share in the matter I must tell in the kirk session; and Dominie de Ronde is not one slack in giving the reproof.  With our own people a disgrace it will be counted.  Can I not hear Van Vleek grumble, ’Well, now, I hope Joris Van Heemskirk has had enough of his fine English company;’ and Elder Brouwer will say, ’He must marry his daughter to an Englishman; and, see, what has come of it;’ and that evil old woman, Madam Van Corlaer, will shake her head and whisper, ’Yes, neighbours, and depend upon it, the girl is of a light mind and bad morals, and it is her fault; and I shall take care my nieces to her speak no more.’  So it will be; Katherine herself will find it so.”

“The poor child!  Sorry am I she ever went to Madam Semple’s to see Mrs. Gordon.  If thy word I had taken, Joris!”

“If my word the elder also had taken.  When first, he told me that his house he would offer to the Gordons, I said to him, ’So foolish art them!  In the end, what does not fit will fight.’  If to-night them could have seen Mistress Gordon when she heard of her nephew’s hurt.  Without one word of regret, without one word of thanks, and in a great passion, she left the house.  For Neil she cared not.  ’He had been ever an envious kill-joy.  He had ever hated her dear Dick.  He had ever been jealous of any one handsomer than himself.  He was a black dog in the manger; and she hoped, with all her heart, that Dick had done for him.’  Beside herself with grief and passion she was, or the elder had not borne so patiently her words.”

“As her own son, she loved him.”

“Yea, Lysbet; but just one should be.  Weary and sad am I to-night.”

The next morning was the sabbath, and many painful questions suggested themselves to Joris and Lysbet Van Heemskirk.  Joris felt that he must not take his seat among the deacons until he had been fully exonerated of all blame of blood-guiltiness by the dominie and his elders and deacons in full kirk session.  Madam could hardly endure the thought of the glances that would be thrown at her daughter, and the probable slights she would receive.  Batavius plainly showed an aversion to being seen in Katherine’s company.  But these things did not seem to Joris a sufficient reason for neglecting worship.  He thought it best for people to face the unpleasant consequences of wrong-doing; and he added, “In trouble also, my dear ones, where should we go but into the house of the good God?”

Katherine had not spoken during the discussion but, when it was over, she said, “Mijn vader, mijn moeder, to-day I cannot go!  For me have some pity.  The dominie I will speak to first; and what he says, I will do.”

“Between me and thy moeder thou shalt be.”

“Bear it I cannot.  I shall fall down, I shall be ill; and there shall be shame and fear, and the service to make stop, and then more wonder and more talk, and the dominie angry also!  At home I am the best.”

“Well, then, so it shall be.”

But Joris was stern to Katherine, and his anger added the last bitterness to her grief.  No one had said a word of reproach to her; but, equally, no one had said a word of pity.  Even Joanna was shy and cold, for Batavius had made her feel that one’s own sister may fall below moral par and sympathy.  “If either of the men die,” he had said, “I shall always consider Katherine guilty of murder; and nowhere in the Holy Scriptures are we told to forgive murder, Joanna.  And even while the matter is uncertain, is it not right to be careful?  Are we not told to avoid even the appearance of evil?” So that, with this charge before him, Batavius felt that countenancing Katherine in any way was not keeping it.

And certainly the poor girl might well fear the disapproval of the general public, when her own family made her feel her fault so keenly.  The kirk that morning would have been the pillory to her.  She was unspeakably grateful for the solitude of the house, for space and silence, in which she could have the relief of unrestrained weeping.  About the middle of the morning, she heard Bram’s footsteps.  She divined why he had come home, and she shrank from meeting him until he removed the clothing he had worn during the night’s bloody vigil.  Bram had not thought of Katherine’s staying from kirk; and when she confronted him, so tear-stained and woe-begone, his heart was full of pity for her.  “My poor little Katherine!” he said; and she threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed upon his breast as if her heart would break.

[Illustration:  “O Bram! is he dead?”]

“Mijn kleintje, who has grieved thee?”

“O Bram! is he dead?”

“Who?  Neil?  I think he will get well once more.”

“What care I for Neil?  The wicked one!  I wish that he might die.  Yes, that I do.”

“Whish!—­to say that is wrong.”

“Bram!  Bram!  A little pity give me.  It is the other one.  Hast thou heard?”

“How can he live?  Look at that sorrow, dear one, and ask God to forgive and help thee.”

“No, I will not look at it.  I will ask God every moment that he may get well.  Could I help that I should love him?  So kind, so generous, is he!  Oh, my dear one, my dear one, would I had died for thee!”

Bram was much moved.  Within the last twenty-four hours he had begun to understand the temptation in which Katherine had been; begun to understand that love never asks, ’What is thy name?  Of what country art thou?  Who is thy father?’ He felt that so long as he lived he must remember Miriam Cohen as she stood talking to him in the shadowy store.  Beauty like hers was strange and wonderful to the young Dutchman.  He could not forget her large eyes, soft and brown as gazelle’s; the warm pallor and brilliant carnation of her complexion; her rosy, tender mouth; her abundant black hair, fastened with large golden pins, studded with jewels.  He could not forget the grace of her figure, straight and slim as a young palm-tree, clad in a plain dark garment, and a neckerchief of white India silk falling away from her exquisite throat.  He did not yet know that he was in love; he only felt how sweet it was to sit still and dream of the dim place, and the splendidly beautiful girl standing among its piled-up furniture and its hanging draperies.  And this memory of Miriam made him very pitiful to Katherine.

“Every one is angry at me, Bram, even my father; and Batavius will not sit on the chair at my side; and Joanna says a great disgrace I have made for her.  And thou?  Wilt thou also scold me?  I think I shall die of grief.”

“Scold thee, thou little one?  That I will not.  And those that are angry with thee may be angry with me also.  And if there is any comfort I can get thee, tell thy brother Bram.  He will count thee first, before all others.  How could they make thee weep?  Cruel are they to do so.  And as for Batavius, mind him not.  Not much I think of Batavius!  If he says this or that to thee, I will answer him.”

“Bram! my Bram! my brother!  There is one comfort for me,—­if I knew that he still lived; if one hope thou could give me!”

“What hope there is, I will go and see.  Before they are back from kirk, I will be back; and, if there is good news, I will be glad for thee.”

Not half an hour was Bram away; and yet, to the miserable girl, how grief and fear lengthened out the moments!  She tried to prepare herself for the worst; she tried to strengthen her soul even for the message of death.  But very rarely is any grief as bad as our own terror of it.  When Bram came back, it was with a word of hope on his lips.

“I have seen,” he said, “who dost thou think?—­the Jew Cohen.  He of all men, he has sat by Captain Hyde’s side all night; and he has dressed the wound the English surgeon declared ‘beyond mortal skill.’  And he said to me, ’Three times, in the Persian desert, I have cured wounds still worse, and the Holy One hath given me the power of healing; and, if He wills, the young man shall recover.’  That is what he said, Katherine.”

“Forever I will love the Jew.  Though he fail, I will love him.  So kind he is, even to those who have not spoken well, nor done well, to him.”

“So kind, also, was the son of David to all of us.  Now, then, go wash thy face, and take comfort and courage.”

“Bram, leave me not.”

“There is Neil.  We have been companions; and his father and his mother are old, and need me.”

“Also, I need thee.  All the time they will make me to feel how wicked is Katherine Van Heemskirk!”

At this moment the family returned from the morning service, and Bram rather defiantly drew his sister to his side.  Joris was not with them.  He had stopped at the “King’s Arms” to ask if Captain Hyde was still alive; for, in spite of everything, the young man’s heroic cheerfulness in the agony of the preceding night had deeply touched Joris.  No one spoke to Katherine; even her mother was annoyed and humiliated at the social ordeal through which they had just passed, and she thought it only reasonable that the erring girl should be made to share the trial.  Batavius, however, had much curiosity; and his first thought on seeing Bram at home was, “Neil is of course dead, and Bram is of no further use;” and, in the tone of one personally injured by such a fatality, he ejaculated,—­

“So it is the end, then.  On the sabbath day Neil has gone.  If it should be the sabbath day in the other world,—­which is likely,—­it will be the worse for Neil.”

“What mean you?”

“Is not Neil Semple dead?”

“No.  I think, also, that he will live.”

“I am glad.  It is good for Katherine.”

“I see it not.”

“Well, then, if he dies, is it not Katherine’s fault?”

“Heaven and hell!  No!  Katherine is not to blame.”

“All respectable and moral people will say so.”

“Better for them not to say so.  If I hear of it, then I will make them say it to my face.”

“Then?  Well?”

“I have my hands and my feet, for them—­to punish their tongues.”

“And the kirk session?”

“Oh, I care not!  What is the kirk session to my little Katherine?  Batavius, if man or woman you hear speak ill of her, tell them it is not Katherine, but Bram Van Heemskirk, that will bring everything back to them.  What words I say, them I mean.”

“Oh, yes!  And mind this, Bram, the words I think, them words I will say, whether you like them or like them not.”

“As the wind you bluster,—­on the sabbath day, also.  In your ship I sail not, Batavius.  Good-by, then, Katherine; and if any are unkind to thee, tell thy brother.  For thou art right, and not wrong.”

But, though Bram bravely championed his sister, he could not protect her from those wicked innuendoes disseminated for the gratification of the virtuous; nor from those malicious regrets of very good people over rumours which they declare to “be incredible,” and yet which, nevertheless, they “unfortunately believe to be too true.”  The Scotch have a national precept which says, “Never speak ill of the dead.”  Would it not be much better to speak no ill of the living?  Little could it have mattered to Madam Bogardus or Madam Stuyvesant what a lot of silly people said of them in Pearl Street or Maiden Lane, a century after their death; but poor Katherine Van Heemskirk shivered and sickened in the presence of averted eyes and uplifted shoulders, and in that chill atmosphere of disapproval which separated her from the sympathy and confidence of her old friends and acquaintances.

“It is thy punishment,” said her mother, “bear it bravely and patiently.  In a little while, it will be forgot.”  But the weeks went on, and the wounded men slowly fought death away from their pillows, and Katherine did not recover the place in social estimation which she had lost through the ungovernable tempers of her lovers.  For, alas, there are few social pleasures that have so much vital power as that of exploring the faults of others, and comparing them with our own virtues!

But nothing ill lasts forever; and in three months Neil Semple was in his office again, wan and worn with fever and suffering, and wearing his sword arm in a sling, but still decidedly world-like and life-like.  It was characteristic of Neil that few, even of his intimates, cared to talk of the duel to him, to make any observations on his absence, or any inquiries about his health.  But it was evident that public opinion was in a large measure with him.  Every young Provincial, who resented the domineering spirit of the army, felt Hyde’s punishment in the light of a personal satisfaction.  Beekman also had talked highly of the unbending spirit and physical bravery of his principal; and though in the Middle Kirk the affair was sure to be the subject of a reproof, and of a suspension of its highest privileges, yet it was not difficult to feel that sympathy often given to deeds publicly censured, but privately admired.  Joris remarked this spirit with a little astonishment and dissent.  He could not find in his heart any excuse for either Neil or Hyde; and, when the elder enlarged with some acerbity upon the requirements of honour among men, Joris offended him by replying,—­

“Well, then, Elder, little I think of that ‘honour’ which runs not with the laws of God and country.”

“Let me tell you, Joris, the ‘voice of the people is the voice of God,’ in a measure; and you may see with your ain een that it mair than acquits Neil o’ wrong-doing.  Man, Joris! would you punish a fair sword-fight wi’ the hangman?”

“A better way there is.  In the pillory I would stand these men of honour, who of their own feelings think more than of the law of God.  A very quick end that punishment would put to a custom wicked and absurd.”

“Weel, Joris, we’ll hae no quarrel anent the question.  You are a Dutchman, and hae practical ideas o’ things in general.  Honour is a virtue that canna be put in the Decalogue, like idolatry and murder and theft.”

“Say you the Decalogue?  Its yea and nay are enough.  Harder than any of God’s laws are the laws we make for ourselves.  Little I think of their justice and wisdom.  If right was Neil, if wrong was Hyde, honour punished both.  A very foolish law is honour, I think.”

“Here comes Neil, and we’ll let the question fa’ to the ground.  There are wiser men than either you or I on baith sides.”

Joris nodded gravely, and turned to welcome the young man.  More than ever he liked him; for, apart from moral and prudential reasons, it was easy for the father to forgive an unreasonable love for his Katharine.  Also, he was now more anxious for a marriage between Neil and his daughter.  It was indeed the best thing to fully restore her to the social esteem of her own people; for by making her his wife, Neil would most emphatically exonerate her from all blame in the quarrel.  Just this far, and no farther, had Neil’s three months’ suffering aided his suit,—­he had now the full approval of Joris, backed by the weight of this social justification.

But, in spite of these advantages, he was really much farther away from Katherine.  The three months had been full of mental suffering to her, and she blamed Neil entirely for it.  She had heard from Bram the story of the challenge and the fight; heard how patiently Hyde had parried Neil’s attack rather than return it, until Neil had so passionately refused any satisfaction less than his life; heard, also, how even at the point of death, fainting and falling, Hyde had tried to protect her ribbon at his breast.  She never wearied of talking with Bram on the subject; she thought of it all day, dreamed of it all night.

And she knew much more about it than her parents or Joanna supposed.  Bram had easily fallen into the habit of calling at Cohen’s to ask after his patient.  He would have gone for his sister’s comfort alone, but it was also a great pleasure to himself.  At first he saw Miriam often; and, when he did, life became a heavenly thing to Bram Van Heemskirk.  And though latterly it was always the Jew himself who answered his questions, there was at least the hope that Miriam would be in the store, and lift her eyes to him, or give him a smile or a few words of greeting.  Katherine very soon suspected how matters stood with her brother, and gratitude led her to talk with him about the lovely Jewess.  Every day she listened with apparent interest to his descriptions of Miriam, as he had seen her at various times; and every day she felt more desirous to know the girl whom she was certain Bram deeply loved.

But for some weeks after the duel she could not bear to leave the house.  It was only after both men were known to be recovering, that she ventured to kirk; and her experience there was not one which tempted her to try the streets and the stores.  However, no interest is a living interest in a community but politics; and these probably retain their power because change is their element.  People eventually got weary to death of Neil Semple and Captain Hyde and Katherine Van Heemskirk.  The subject had been discussed in every possible light; and, when it was known that neither of the men was going to die, gossipers felt as if they had been somewhat defrauded, and the topic lost every touch of speculation.

Also, far more important events had now the public attention.  During the previous March, the Stamp Act and the Quartering Act had passed both houses of Parliament; and Virginia and Massachusetts, conscious of their dangerous character, had roused the fears of the other Provinces; and a convention of their delegates was appointed to meet during October in New York.  It was this important session which drew Neil Semple, with scarcely healed wounds, from his chamber.  The streets were noisy with hawkers crying the detested Acts, and crowded with groups of stern-looking men discussing them.  And, with the prospect of soldiers quartered in every home, women had a real grievance to talk over; and Katherine Van Heemskirk’s love-affair became an intrusion and a bore, if any one was foolish enough to name it.

[Illustration:  The streets were noisy with hawkers]

It was during this time of excitement that Katherine said one morning, at breakfast, “Bram wait one minute for me.  I am going to do an errand or two for my mother.

“It is a bad time, Katherine, you have chosen,” said Batavius.  “Full of men are the streets, excited men too, and of swaggering British soldiers, whom it would be a great pleasure to tie up in a halter.  The British I hate,—­bullying curs, everyone of them!”

“Well, I know that you hate the British, Batavius.  You say so every hour.”

“Katherine!”

“That is so, Joanna.”

Madam looked annoyed.  Joris rose, and said, “Come then, Katherine, thou shalt go with me and with Bram both.  Batavius need not then fear for thee.”

His voice was so tender that Katherine felt an unusual happiness and exultation; and she was also young enough to be glad to see the familiar streets again, and to feel the pulse of their vivid life make her heart beat quicker.

At Kip’s store, Bram left her.  She had felt so free and unremarked, that she said, “Wait not for me, Bram.  By myself I will go home.  Or perhaps I might call upon Miriam Cohen.  What dost thou think?” And Bram’s large, handsome face flushed like a girl’s with pleasure, as he answered, “That I would like, and there thou could rest until the dinner-hour.  As I go home, I could call for thee.”

So, after selecting the goods her mother needed at Kip’s, Katherine was going up Pearl Street, when she heard herself called in a familiar and urgent voice.  At the same moment a door was flung open; and Mrs. Gordon, running down the few steps, put her hand upon the girl’s shoulder.

“Oh, my dear, this is a piece of good fortune past belief!  Come into my lodgings.  Oh, indeed you shall!  I will have no excuse.  Surely you owe Dick and me some reward after the pangs we have suffered for you.”

She was leading Katherine into the house as she spoke; and Katherine had not the will, and therefore not the power, to oppose her.  She placed the girl by her side on the sofa; she took her hands, and, with a genuine grief and love, told her all that “poor Dick” had suffered and was still suffering for her sake.

“It was the most unprovoked challenge, my dear; and Neil Semple behaved like a savage, I assure you.  When Dick was bleeding from half a dozen wounds, a gentleman would have been satisfied, and accepted the mediation of the seconds; but Neil, in his blind passion, broke the code to pieces.  A man who can do nothing but be in a rage is a ridiculous and offensive animal.  Have you seen him since his recovery?  For I hear that he has crawled out of his bed again.”

“Him I have not seen.”

“Gracious powers, miss!  Is that all you say, ‘Him I have not seen’?  Make me patient with so insensible a creature!  Here am I almost distracted with my three months’ anxiety and poor Dick, so gone as to be past knowledge, breaking his true heart for a sight of you; and you answer me as if I had asked, ‘Pray, have you seen the newspaper to-day?’”

Then Katherine covered her face, and sobbed with a hopelessness and abandon that equally fretted Mrs. Gordon.  “I wish I knew one corner of this world inaccessible to lovers,” she cried.  “Of all creatures, they are the most ridiculous and unreasonable.  Now, what are you crying for, child?”

“If I could only see Richard,—­only see him for one moment!”

“That is exactly what I am going to propose.  He will get better when he has seen you.  I will call a coach, and we will go at once.”

“Alas!  Go I dare not.  My father and my mother!”

“And Dick,—­what of Dick, poor Dick, who is dying for you?” She went to the door, and gave the order for a coach.  “Your lover, Katherine.  Child, have you no heart?  Shall I tell Dick you would not come with me?”

“Be not so cruel to me.  That you have seen me at all, why need you say?”

“Oh! indeed, miss, do not imagine yourself the only person who values the truth.  Dick always asks me, ‘Have you seen her?’ ’Tis my humour to be truthful, and I am always swayed by my inclination.  I shall feel it to be my duty to inform him how indifferent you are.  Katherine, put on your bonnet again.  Here also are my veil and cloak.  No one will perceive that it is you.  It is the part of humanity, I assure you.  Do so much for a poor soul who is at the grave’s mouth.”

“My father, I promised him”—­

“O child! have six penny worth of common feeling about you.  The man is dying for your sake.  If he were your enemy, instead of your true lover, you might pity him so much.  Do you not wish to see Dick?”

“My life for his life I would give.”

“Words, words, my dear.  It is not your life he wants.  He asks only ten minutes of your time.  And if you desire to see him, give yourself the pleasure.  There is nothing more silly than to be too wise to be happy.”

While thus alternately urging and persuading Katherine, the coach came, the disguise was assumed, and the two drove rapidly to the “King’s Arms.”  Hyde was lying upon a couch which had been drawn close to the window.  But in order to secure as much quiet as possible, he had been placed in one of the rooms at the rear of the tavern,—­a large, airy room, looking into the beautiful garden which stretched away backward as far as the river.  He had been in extremity.  He was yet too weak to stand, too weak to endure long the strain of company or books or papers.

He heard his aunt’s voice and footfall, and felt, as he always did, a vague pleasure in her advent.  Whatever of life came into his chamber of suffering came through her.  She brought him daily such intelligences as she thought conducive to his recovery; and it must be acknowledged that it was not always her “humour to be truthful.”  For Hyde had so craved news of Katherine, that she believed he would die wanting it; and she had therefore fallen, without one conscientious scruple, into the reporter’s temptation,—­inventing the things which ought to have taken place, and did not.  “For, in faith, Nigel,” she said to her husband, in excuse, “those who have nothing to tell must tell lies.”

[Illustration:  Katherine was close to his side]

Her reports had been ingenious and diversified.  “She had seen Katherine at one of the windows,—­the very picture of distraction.”  “She had been told that Katherine was breaking her heart about him;” also, “that Elder Semple and Councillor Van Heemskirk had quarrelled because Katharine had refused to see Neil, and the elder blamed Van Heemskirk for not compelling her obedience.”  Whenever Hyde had been unusually depressed or unusually nervous, Mrs. Gordon had always had some such comforting fiction ready.  Now, here was the real Katherine.  Her very presence, her smiles, her tears, her words, would be a consolation so far beyond all hope, that the girl by her side seemed a kind of miracle to her.

She was far more than a miracle to Hyde.  As the door opened, he slowly turned his head.  When he saw who was really there, he uttered a low cry of joy,—­a cry pitiful in its shrill weakness.  In a moment Katherine was close to his side.  This was no time for coyness, and she was too tender and true a woman to feel or to affect it.  She kissed his hands and face, and whispered on his lips the sweetest words of love and fidelity.  Hyde was in a rapture.  His joyful soul made his pale face luminous.  He lay still, speechless, motionless, watching and listening to her.

Mrs. Gordon had removed Katherine’s veil and cloak, and considerately withdrawn to a mirror at the extremity of the room, where she appeared to be altogether occupied with her own ringlets.  But, indeed, it was with Katherine and Hyde one of those supreme hours when love conquers every other feeling.  Before the whole world they would have avowed their affection, their pity, and their truth.

Hyde could speak little, but there was no need of speech.  Had he not nearly died for her?  Was not his very helplessness a plea beyond the power of words?  She had only to look at the white shadow of humanity holding her hand, and remember the gay, gallant, handsome soldier who had wooed her under the water-beeches, to feel that all the love of her life was too little to repay his devotion.  And so quickly, so quickly, went the happy moments!  Ere Katherine had half said, “I love thee,” Mrs. Gordon reminded her that it was near the noon; “and I have an excellent plan,” she continued; “you can leave my veil and cloak in the coach, and I will leave you at the first convenient place near your home.  At the turn of the road, one sees nobody but your excellent father or brother, or perhaps Justice Van Gaasbeek, all of whom we may avoid, if you will but consider the time.”

“Then we must part, my Katherine, for a little.  When will you come again?”

This was a painful question, because Katherine felt, that, however she might excuse herself for the unforeseen stress of pity that all unaware had hurried her into this interview, she knew she could not find the same apology for one deliberate and prearranged.

“Only once more,” Hyde pleaded.  “I had, my Katherine, so many things to say to you.  In my joy, I forgot all.  Come but once more.  Upon my honour, I promise to ask Katherine Van Heemskirk only this once.  To-morrow?  ‘No.’  Two days hence, then?”

“Two days hence I will come again.  Then no more.”

He smiled at her, and put out his hands; and she knelt again by his side, and kissed her “farewell” on his lips.  And, as she put on again her cloak and veil, he drew a small volume towards him, and with trembling hands tore out of it a scrap of paper, and gave it to her.

Under the lilac hedge that night she read it, read it over and over,—­the bit of paper made almost warm and sentient by Phoedria’s tender petition to his beloved,—­

“When you are in company with that other man, behave as if you were absent; but continue to love me by day and by night; want me, dream of me, expect me, think of me, wish for me, delight in me, be wholly with me; in short, be my very soul, as I am yours.”

[Illustration:  Tail-piece]

[Illustration:  Chapter heading]