The Bow of Orange Ribbon: A Romance of New York

          “Let determined things to destiny
          Hold unbewailed their way.”

If Katherine had lived at this day, she would probably have spent her time between her promise and its fulfilment in self-analysis and introspective reasoning with her own conscience.  But the women of a century ago were not tossed about with winds of various opinions, or made foolishly subtile by arguments about principles which ought never to be associated with dissent.  A few strong, plain dictates had been set before Katherine as the law of her daily life; and she knew, beyond all controversy, when she disobeyed them.

In her own heart, she called the sin she had determined to commit by its most unequivocal name.  “I shall make happy Richard; but my father I shall deceive and disobey, and against my own soul there will be the lie.”  This was the position she admitted, but every woman is Eve in some hours of her life.  The law of truth and wisdom may be in her ears, but the apple of delight hangs within her reach, and, with a full understanding of the consequences of disobedience, she takes the forbidden pleasure.  And if the vocal, positive command of Divinity was unheeded by the first woman, mere mortal parents surely ought not to wonder that their commands, though dictated by truest love and clearest wisdom, are often lightly held, or even impotent against the voice of some charmer, pleading personal pleasure against duty, and self-will against the law infinitely higher and purer.

In truth, Katherine had grown very weary of the perpetual eulogies which Batavius delivered of everything respectable and conservative.  A kind of stubbornness in evil followed her acceptance of evil.  This time, at least, she was determined to do wrong, whatever the consequences might be.  Batavius and his inflexible propriety irritated her:  she had a rebellious desire to give him little moral shocks; and she deeply resented his constant injunctions to “remember that Joanna’s and his own good name were, in a manner, in her keeping.”

Very disagreeable she thought Batavius had grown, and she also jealously noted the influence he was exercising over Joanna.  There are women who prefer secrecy to honesty, and sin to truthfulness; but Katherine was not one of them.  If it had been possible to see her lover honourably, she would have much preferred it.  She was totally destitute of that contemptible sentimentality which would rather invent difficulties in a love-affair than not have them, but she knew well the storm of reproach and disapproval which would answer any such request; and her thoughts were all bent toward devising some plan which would enable her to leave home early on that morning which she had promised her lover.

But all her little arrangements failed; and it was almost at the last hour of the evening previous, that circumstances offered her a reasonable excuse.  It came through Batavius, who returned home later than usual, bringing with him a great many patterns of damask and figured cloth and stamped leather.  At once he announced his intention of staying at home the next morning in order to have Joanna’s aid in selecting the coverings for their new chairs, and counting up their cost.  He had taken the strips out of his pocket with an air of importance and complaisance; and Katherine, glancing from them to her mother, thought she perceived a fleeting shadow of a feeling very much akin to her own contempt of the man’s pronounced self-satisfaction.  So when supper was over, and the house duties done, she determined to speak to her.  Joris was at a town meeting, and Lysbet did not interfere with the lovers.  Katherine found her standing at an open window, looking thoughtfully into the autumn garden.

“Mijn moeder.”

“Mijn kind.”

“Let me go away with Bram in the morning.  Batavius I cannot bear.  About every chair-cover he will call in the whole house.  The only chair-covers in the world they will be.  Listen, how he will talk:  ’See here, Joanna.  A fine piece is this; ten shillings and sixpence the yard, and good enough for the governor’s house.  But I am a man of some substance,—­Gode zij dank!—­and people will expect that I, who give every Sunday twice to the kirk, should have chairs in accordance.’ Moeder, you know how it will be.  To-morrow I cannot bear him.  Very near quarrelling have we been for a week.”

“I know, Katharine, I know.  Leave, then, with Bram, and go first to Margaret Pitt’s, and ask her if the new winter fashions will arrive from London this month.  I heard also that Mary Blankaart has lost a silk purse, and in it five gold jacobus, and some half and quarter johannes.  Ask kindly for her, and about the money; and so the morning could be passed.  And look now, Katherine, peace is the best thing; and to his own house Batavius will go in a few weeks.”

“That will make me glad.”

“Whish, mijn kind! Thy bad thoughts should be dumb thoughts.”

“Mijn moeder, sad and troubled are thy looks.  What is thy sorrow?”

“For thee my heart aches often,—­mine and thy good father’s, too.  Dost thou not suffer?  Can thy mother be blind?  Nothing hast thou eaten lately.  Joanna says thou art restless all the night long.  Thou art so changed then, that wert ever such a happy little one.  Once thou did love me, Katrijntje.”

“Ach, mijn moeder, still I love thee!”

“But that English soldier?”

“Never can I cease to love him.  See, now, the love I give him is his love.  It never was thine.  For him I brought it into the world.  None of thy love have I given to him. Mijn moeder, thee I would not rob for the whole world; not I!”

“For all that, kleintje, hard is the mother’s lot.  The dear children I nursed on my breast, they go here and they go there, with this strange one and that strange one.  Last night, ere to our sleep we went, thy father read to me some words of the loving, motherlike Jacob.  They are true words.  Every good mother has said them, at the grave or at the bridal, ’En mij aangaande, als ik van kinderen beroofd ben, zoo ben ik beroofd!’”

There was a sad pathos in the homely old words as they dropped slowly from Lysbet’s lips,—­a pathos that fitted perfectly the melancholy air of the fading garden, the melancholy light of the fading day, and the melancholy regret for a happy home gradually scattering far and wide.  Many a year afterward Katharine remembered the hour and the words, especially in the gray glooms of late October evenings.

The next morning was one of perfect beauty, and Katharine awoke with a feeling of joyful expectation.  She dressed beautifully her pale brown hair; and her intended visit to Mary Blankaart gave her an excuse for wearing her India silk,—­the pretty dress Richard had seen her first in, the dress he had so often admired.  Her appearance caused some remarks, which Madam Van Heemskirk replied to; and with much of her old gayety Katherine walked between her father and brother away from home.

She paid a very short visit to the mantua-maker, and then went to Mrs. Gordon’s.  There was less effusion in that lady’s manner than at her last interview with Katherine.  She had a little spasm of jealousy; she had some doubts about Katherine’s deserts; she wondered whether her nephew really adored the girl with the fervour he affected, or whether he had determined, at all sacrifices, to prevent her marriage with Neil Semple.  Katherine had never before seen her so quiet and so cool; and a feeling of shame sprang up in the girl’s heart.  “Perhaps she was going to do something not exactly proper in Mrs. Gordon’s eyes, and in advance that lady was making her sensible of her contempt.”

With this thought, she rose, and with burning cheeks said, “I will go home, madam.  Now I feel that I am doing wrong.  To write to Captain Hyde will be the best way.”

“Pray don’t be foolish, Katherine.  I am of a serious turn this morning, that is all.  How pretty you are! and how vastly becoming your gown!  But, indeed, I am going to ask you to change it.  Yesterday, at the ’King’s Arms,’ I said my sister would arrive this morning with me; and I bespoke a little cotillon in Dick’s rooms.  In that dress you will be too familiar, my dear.  See here, is not this the prettiest fashion?  It is lately come over.  So airy! so French! so all that!”

It was a light-blue gown and petticoat of rich satin, sprigged with silver, and a manteau of dark-blue velvet trimmed with bands of delicate fur.  The bonnet was not one which the present generation would call “lovely;” but, in its satin depths, Katharine’s fresh, sweet face looked like a rose.  She hardly knew herself when the toilet was completed; and, during its progress, Mrs. Gordon recovered all her animation and interest.

[Illustration:  In its satin depths]

Before they were ready, a coach was in waiting; and in a few minutes they stood together at Hyde’s door.  There was a sound of voices within; and, when they entered, Katherine saw, with a pang of disappointment, a fine, soldierly looking man in full uniform sitting by Richard’s side.  But Richard appeared to be in no way annoyed by his company.  He was looking much better, and wore a chamber gown of maroon satin, with deep laces showing at the wrists and bosom.  When Katherine entered, he was amazed and charmed with her appearance.  “Come near to me, my Katherine,” he said; and as Mrs. Gordon drew from her shoulders the mantle, and from her head the bonnet, and revealed more perfectly her beautiful person and dress, his love and admiration were beyond words.

With an air that plainly said, “This is the maiden for whom I fought and have suffered:  is she not worthy of my devotion?” he introduced her to his friend, Captain Earle.  But, even as they spoke, Earle joined Mrs. Gordon, at a call from her; and Katherine noticed that a door near which they stood was open, and that they went into the room to which it led, and that other voices then blended with theirs.  But these things were as nothing.  She was with her lover, alone for a moment with him; and Richard had never before seemed to her half so dear or half so fascinating.

“My Katharine,” he said, “I have one tormenting thought.  Night and day it consumes me like a fever.  I hear that Neil Semple is well.  Yesterday Captain Earle met him; he was walking with your father.  He will be visiting at your house very soon.  He will see you; he will speak to you.  You have such obliging manners, he may even clasp this hand, my hand.  Heavens!  I am but a man, and I find myself unable to endure the thought.”

“In my heart, Richard, there is only room for you.  Neil Semple I fear and dislike.”

“They will make you marry him, my darling.”

“No; that they can never do.”

“But I suffer in the fear.  I suffer a thousand deaths.  If you were only my wife, Katherine!”

She blushed divinely.  She was kneeling at his side; and she put her arms around his neck, and laid her face against his.  “Only your wife I will be.  That is what I desire also.”

“Now, Katherine?  This minute, darling?  Make me sure of the felicity you have promised.  You have my word of honour, that as Katherine Van Heemskirk I will not again ask you to come here.  But it is past my impatience to exist, and not see you. Katherine Hyde would have the right to come.”

“Oh, my love, my love!”

“See how I tremble, Katherine.  Life scarcely cares to inhabit a body so weak.  If you refuse me, I will let it go.  If you refuse me, I shall know that in your heart you expect to marry Neil Semple,—­the savage who has made me to suffer unspeakable agonies.”

“Never will I marry him, Richard,—­never, never.  My word is true.  You only I will marry.”

“Then now, now, Katharine.  Here is the ring.  Here is the special license from the governor; my aunt has made him to understand all.  The clergyman and the witnesses are waiting.  Some good fortune has dressed you in bridal beauty. Now, Katherine? Now, now!”

[Illustration:  Katherine knelt by Richard’s side]

She rose, and stood white and trembling by his dear side,—­speechless, also.  To her father and her mother her thoughts fled in a kind of loving terror.  But how could she resist the pleading of one whom she so tenderly loved, and to whom, in her maiden simplicity, she imagined herself to be so deeply bounden?  That very self-abnegation which forms so large a portion of a true affection urged her to compliance far more than love itself.  And when Richard ceased to speak, and only besought her with the unanswerable pathos of his evident suffering for her sake, she felt the argument to be irresistible.

“Well, my Katherine, will you pity me so far?”

“All you ask, my loved one, I will grant.”

“Angel of goodness! Now?”

“At your wish, Richard.”

He took her hand in a passion of joy and gratitude, and touched a small bell.  Immediately there was a sudden silence, and then a sudden movement, in the adjoining room.  The next moment a clergyman in canonical dress came toward them.  By his side was Colonel Gordon, and Mrs. Gordon and Captain Earle followed.  If Katherine had then been sensible of any misgiving or repentant withdrawal, the influences surrounding her were irresistible.  But she had no distinct wish to resist them.  Indeed, Colonel Gordon said afterward to his wife, “he had never seen a bride look at once so lovely and so happy.”  The ceremony was full of solemnity, and of that deepest joy which dims the eyes with tears, even while it wreathes the lips with smiles.  During it, Katherine knelt by Richard’s side; and every eye was fixed upon him, for he was almost fainting with the fatigue of his emotions; and it was with fast-receding consciousness that he whispered rapturously at its close, “My wife, my wife!”

Throughout the sleep of exhaustion which followed, she sat watching him.  The company in the next room were quietly making merry “over Dick’s triumph,” but Katherine shook her head at all proposals to join them.  The band of gold around her finger fascinated her.  She was now really Richard’s wife; and the first sensation of such a mighty change was, in her pure soul, one of infinite and reverent love.  When Richard awoke, he was refreshed and supremely happy.  Then Katherine brought him food and wine, and ate her own morsel beside him.  “Our first meal we must take together,” she said; and Hyde was already sensible of some exquisite change, some new and rarer tenderness and solicitude in all her ways toward him.

The noon hour was long past, but she made no mention of it.  The wedding guests also lingered, talking and laughing softly, and occasionally visiting the happy bride and bridegroom in their blissful companionship.  In those few hours Richard made sure his dominion over his wife’s heart; and he had so much to tell her, and so many directions to give her, that, ere they were aware, the afternoon was well spent.  The clergyman and the soldiers departed, Mrs. Gordon was a little weary, and Hyde was fevered with the very excess of his joy.  The moment for parting had come; and, when it has, wise are those who delay it not.  Hyde fixed his eyes upon his wife until Mrs. Gordon had arranged again her bonnet and manteau; then, with a smile, he shut in their white portals the exquisite picture.  He could let her go with a smile now, for he knew that Katherine’s absence was but a parted presence; knew that her better part remained with him, that

“Her heart was never away,
But ever with his forever.”

The coach was waiting; and, without delay, Katharine returned with Mrs. Gordon to her lodgings.  Both were silent on the journey.  When a great event has taken place, only the shallow and unfeeling chatter about it.  Katherine’s heart was full, even to solemnity; and Mrs. Gordon, whose affectation of fashionable levity was in a large measure pretence, had a kind and sensible nature, and she watched the quiet girl by her side with decided approval.  “She may not be in the mode, but she is neither silly nor heartless,” she decided; “and as for loving foolishly my poor, delightful Dick, why, any girl may be excused the folly.”

Upon leaving the coach at Mrs. Gordon’s, Katherine went to an inner room to resume her own dress.  The India silk lay across a chair; and she took off, and folded with her accustomed neatness, the elegant suit she had worn.  As she did so, she became sensible of a singular liking for it; and, when Mrs. Gordon entered the room, she said to her, “Madam, very much I desire this suit:  it is my wedding-gown.  Will you save it for me?  Some day I may wear it again, when Richard is well.”

“Indeed, Katherine, that is a womanly thought; it does you a vast deal of credit; and, upon my word, you shall have the gown.  I shall be put to straits without it, to out-dress Miss Betty Lawson; but never mind, I have a few decent gowns beside it.”

“Richard, too, he will like it?  You think so, madam?”

“My dear, don’t begin to quote Richard to me.  I shall be impatient if you do.  I assure you I have never considered him a prodigy.”  Then, kissing her fondly, “Madam Katherine Hyde, my entire service to you.  Pray be sure I shall give your husband my best concern.  And now I think you can walk out of the door without much notice; there is a crowd on the street, and every one is busy about their own appearance or affairs.”

“The time, madam?  What is the hour?”

“Indeed, I think it is much after four o’clock.  Half an hour hence, you will have to bring out your excuses.  I shall wish for a little devil at your elbow to help them out.  Indeed, I am vastly troubled for you.”

“Her excuses” Katherine had not suffered herself to consider.  She could not bear to shadow the present with the future.  She had, indeed, a happy faculty of leaving her emergencies to take care of themselves; and perhaps wiser people than Katherine might, with advantage, trust less to their own planning and foresight, and more to that inscrutable power which we call chance, but which so often arranges favourably the events apparently very unfavourable.  For, at the best, foresight has but probabilities to work with; but chance, whose tools we know not, very often contradicts all our bad prophecies, and untangles untoward events far beyond our best prudence or wisdom.  And Katharine was so happy.  She was really Richard’s wife; and on that solid vantage-ground she felt able to beat off trouble, and to defend her own and his rights.

“So much better you look, Katherine,” said Madam Van Heemskirk.  “Where have you been all the day?  And did you see Mary Blankaart?  And the money, is it found yet?”

The family were at the supper-table; and Joris looked kindly at his truant daughter, and motioned to the vacant chair at his side.  She slipped into it, touching her father’s cheek as she passed; and then she answered, “At Mary Blankaart’s I was not at all, mother.”

“Where, then?”

“To Margaret Pitt’s I went first, and with Mrs. Gordon I have been all the day.  She is lodging with Mrs. Lanier, on Pearl Street.”

“Who sent you there, Katherine?”

“No one, mother.  When I passed the house, my name I heard, and Mrs. Gordon came out to me; and how could I refuse her?  Much had we to talk of.”

Batavius saw the girl’s placid face, and heard her open confession, with the greatest amazement.  He looked at Joanna, and was just going to express his opinion, when Joris rose, pushed his chair a little angrily aside, and said, “There is no blame to you, Katherine.  Very kind was Mrs. Gordon to you, and she is a pleasant woman.  For others’ faults she must not answer.  That, also, is what Elder Semple says; for when past was her anger, with a heart full of sorrow she went to him and to Madam Semple.”

“The sorrow that is too late, of what use is it?  A very pleasant woman!  Perhaps she is, but then, also, a very vain, foolish woman.  Every person of discretion says so; and if I had a daughter”—­

“Well, then, Batavius, a daughter thou may have some day.  To the man with a tender heart, God gives his daughters.  Wanting in some good thing I had felt myself, if only sons I had been trusted with.  A daughter is a little white lamb in the household to teach men to be gentle men.”

“I was going to say this, if I had a daughter”—­

“Well, then, when thou hast, more wisdom will be given thee.  Come with thy father, Katrijntje, and down the garden we will walk, and see if there are dahlias yet, and how grow the gold and the white chrysanthemums.”

But all the time they were in the garden together, Joris never spoke of Mrs. Gordon, nor of Katherine’s visit to her.  About the flowers, and the restless swallows, and the bluebirds, who still lingered, silent and anxious, he talked; and a little also of Joanna, and her new house, and of the great wedding feast that was the desire of Batavius.

“Every one he has ever spoken to, he will ask,” said Katherine; “so hard he tries to have many friends, and to be well spoken of.”

“That is his way, Katrijntje; every man has his way.”

“And I like not the way of Batavius.”

“In business, then, he has a good name, honest and prudent.  He will make thy sister a good husband.”

But, though Joris said nothing to his daughter concerning her visit to Mrs. Gordon, he talked long with Lysbet about it.  “What will be the end, thou may see by the child’s face and air,” he said; “the shadow and the heaviness are gone.  Like the old Katherine she is to-night.”

“And this afternoon comes here Neil Semple.  Scarcely he believed me that Katherine was out.  Joris, what wilt thou do about the young man?”

“His fair chance he is to have, Lysbet.  That to the elder is promised.”

“The case now is altered.  Neil Semple I like not.  Little he thought of our child’s good name.  With his sword he wounded her most.  No patience have I with the man.  And his dark look thou should have seen when I said, ‘Katherine is not at home.’  Plainly his eyes said to me, ’Thou art lying.’”

“Well, then, what thought hast thou?”

“This:  one lover must push away the other.  The young dominie that is now with the Rev. Lambertus de Ronde, he is handsome and a great hero.  From Surinam has he come, a man who for the cross has braved savage men and savage beasts and deadly fever.  No one but he is now to be talked of in the kirk; and I would ask him to the house.  Often I have seen the gown and bands put the sword and epaulets behind them.”

“Well, then, at the wedding of Batavius he will be asked; and if before there is a good time, I will say, ’Come into my house, and eat and drink with us.’”

So the loving, anxious parents, in their ignorance, planned.  Even then, accustomed in all their ways to move with caution, they saw no urgent need of interference with the regular and appointed events of life.  A few weeks hence, when Joanna was married, if there was in the meantime no special opportunity, the dominie could be offered as an antidote to the soldier; and, in the interim, Neil Semple was to honourably have such “chance” as his ungovernable temper had left him.

The next afternoon he called again on Katherine.  His arm was still useless; his pallor and weakness so great as to win, even from Lysbet, that womanly pity which is often irrespective of desert.  She brought him wine, she made him rest upon the sofa, and by her quiet air of sympathy bespoke for him a like indulgence from her daughter.  Katherine sat by her small wheel, unplaiting some flax; and Neil thought her the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.  He kept angrily asking himself why he had not perceived this rare loveliness before; why he had not made sure his claim ere rivals had disputed it with him.  He did not understand that it was love which had called this softer, more exquisite beauty into existence.  The tender light in the eyes; the flush upon the cheek; the lips, conscious of sweet words and sweeter kisses; the heart, beating to pure and loving thoughts,—­in short, the loveliness of the soul, transfiguring the meaner loveliness of flesh and blood, Neil had perceived and wondered at; but he had not that kind of love experience which divines the cause from the result.

On the contrary, had Hyde been watching Katherine, he would have been certain that she was musing on her lover.  He would have understood that bewitching languor, that dreaming silence, that tender air and light and colour which was the physical atmosphere of a soul communing with its beloved; a soul touching things present only with its intelligence, but reaching out to the absent with intensity of every loving emotion.

For some time the conversation was general.  The meeting of the delegates, and the hospitalities offered them; the offensive and tyrannical Stamp Act; the new organization of patriots who called themselves “Sons of Liberty;” and the loss of Miss Mary Blankaart’s purse,—­furnished topics of mild dispute.  But no one’s interest was in their words, and presently Madam Van Heemskirk rose and left the room.  Her husband had said, “Neil was to have some opportunities;” and the words of Joris were a law of love to Lysbet.

Neil was not slow to improve the favour.  “Katherine, I wish to speak to you.  I am weak and ill.  Will you come here beside me?”

She rose slowly, and stood beside him; but, when he tried to take her hands, she clasped them behind her back.

“So?” he asked; and the blood surged over his white face in a crimson tide that made him for a moment or two speechless.  “Why not?”

“Blood-stained are your hands.  I will not take them.”

The answer gave him a little comfort.  It was, then, only a moral qualm.  He had even no objection to such a keen sense of purity in her; and sooner or later she would forgive his action, or be made to see it with the eyes of the world in which he moved.

“Katherine, I am very sorry I had to guard my honour with my sword; and it was your love I was fighting for.”

“My honour you cared not for, and with the sword I could not guard it.  Of me cruel and false words have been said by every one.  On the streets I was ashamed to go.  Even the dominie thought it right to come and give me admonition.  Batavius never since has liked or trusted me.  He says Joanna’s good name also I have injured.  And my love,—­is it a thing to be fought for?  You have guarded your honour, but what of mine?”

“Your honour is my honour.  They that speak ill of you, sweet Katherine, speak ill of me.  Your life is my life.  O my precious one, my wife!”

“Such words I will not listen to.  Plainly now I tell you, your wife I will never be,—­never, never, never!”

“I will love you, Katherine, beyond your dream of love.  I will die rather than see you the wife of another man.  For your bow of ribbon, only see what I have suffered.”

“And, also, what have you made another to suffer?”

“Oh, I wish that I had slain him!”

“Not your fault is it that you did not murder him.”

“An affair of honour is not murder, Katherine.”

“Honour!—­Name not the word.  From a dozen wounds your enemy was bleeding; to go on fighting a dying man was murder, not honour.  Brave some call you:  in my heart I say, ’Neil Semple was a savage and a coward.’”

“Katherine, I will not be angry with you.”

“I wish that you should be angry with me.”

“Because some day you will be very sorry for these foolish words, my dear love.”

“Your dear love I am not.”

“My dear love, give me a drink of wine, I am faint.”

[Illustration:  “I am faint”]

His faint whispered words and deathlike countenance moved her to human pity.  She rose for the wine, and, as she did so, called her mother; but Neil had at least the satisfaction of feeling that she had ministered to his weakness, and held the wine to his lips.  From this time, he visited her constantly, unmindful of her frowns, deaf to all her unkind words, patient under the most pointed slights and neglect.  And as most men rate an object according to the difficulty experienced in attaining it, Katherine became every day more precious and desirable in Neil’s eyes.

In the meantime, without being watched, Katherine felt herself to be under a certain amount of restraint.  If she proposed a walk into the city, Joanna or madam was sure to have the same desire.  She was not forbidden to visit Mrs. Gordon, but events were so arranged as to make the visit almost impossible; and only once, during the month after her marriage, had she an interview with her husband.  For even Hyde’s impatience had recognized the absolute necessity of circumspection.  The landlord’s suspicions had been awakened, and not very certainly allayed.  “There must be no scandal about my house, Captain,” he said.  “I merit something better from you;” and, after this injunction, it was very likely that Mrs. Gordon’s companions would be closely scrutinized.  True, the “King’s Arms” was the great rendezvous of the military and government officials, and the landlord himself subserviently loyal; but, also, Joris Van Heemskirk was not a man with whom any good citizen would like to quarrel.  Personally he was much beloved, and socially he stood as representative of a class which held in their hands commercial and political power no one cared to oppose or offend.

The marriage license had been obtained from the governor, but extraordinary influence had been used to procure it.  Katherine was under age, and yet subject to her father’s authority.  In spite of book and priest and ring, he could retain his child for at least three years; and three years, Hyde—­in talking with his aunt—­called “an eternity of doubt and despair.”  These facts, Hyde, in his letters, had fully explained to Katherine; and she understood clearly how important the preservation of her secret was, and how much toward allaying suspicion depended upon her own behaviour.  Fortunately Joanna’s wedding day was drawing near, and it absorbed what attention the general public had for the Van Heemskirk family.  For it was a certain thing, developing into feasting and dancing; and it quite put out of consideration suspicions which resulted in nothing, when people examined them in the clear atmosphere of Katherine’s home.

At the feast of St. Nicholas the marriage was to take place.  Early in November the preparations for it began.  No such great event could happen without an extraordinary housecleaning; and from garret to cellar the housemaid’s pail and brush were in demand.  Spotless was every inch of paint, shining every bit of polished wood and glass; not a thimbleful of dust in the whole house.  Toward the end of the month, Anna and Cornelia arrived, with their troops of rosy boys and girls, and their slow, substantial husbands.  Batavius felt himself to be a very great man.  The weight of his affairs made him solemn and preoccupied.  He was not one of those light, foolish ones, who can become a husband and a householder without being sensible of the responsibilities they assume.

In the midst of all this household excitement Katherine found some opportunities of seeing Mrs. Gordon; and in the joy of receiving letters from, and sending letters to, her husband, she recovered a gayety of disposition which effectually repressed all urgent suspicions.  Besides, as the eventful day drew near, there was so much to attend to.  Joanna’s personal goods, her dresses and household linen, her china, and wedding gifts, had to be packed; the house was decorated; and there was a most amazing quantity of delicacies to be prepared for the table.

In the middle of the afternoon of the day before the marriage, there was the loud rat-tat-tat of the brass knocker, announcing a visitor.  But visitors had been constant since the arrival of Cornelia and Anna, and Katherine did not much trouble herself as to whom it might be.  She was standing upon a ladder, pinning among the evergreens and scarlet berries rosettes and bows of ribbon of the splendid national colour, and singing with a delightsome cheeriness,—­

“But the maid of Holland,
For her own true love,
Ties the splendid orange,
Orange still above!
O oranje boven!
Orange still above!”

“Orange still above!  Oh, my dear, don’t trouble yourself to come down!  I can pass the time tolerably well, watching you.”

It was Mrs. Gordon, and she nodded and laughed in a triumphant way that very quickly brought Katherine to her side.  “My dear, I kiss you.  You are the top beauty of my whole acquaintance.”  Then, in a whisper, “Richard sends his devotion.  And put your hand in my muff:  there is a letter. And pray give me joy:  I have just secured an invitation.  I asked the councillor and madam point blank for it.  Faith, I think I am a little of a favourite with them!  Every one is talking of the bridegroom, and the bridegroom is talking to every one.  Surely, my dear, he imagines himself to be the only man that will ever again commit matrimony. Oranje boven, everywhere!” Then, with a little exultant laugh, “Above the Tartan, at any rate.  How is the young Bruce?  My dear, if you don’t make him suffer, I shall never forgive you.  Alternate doses of hope and despair, that would be my prescription.”

[Illustration:  “Don’t trouble yourself to come down”]

Katherine shook her head.

“Take notice, in particular, that I don’t understand nods and shakes and sighs and signs.  What is your opinion, frankly?”

“On my wedding day, as I left Richard, this he said to me:  ’My honour, Katherine, is now in your keeping.’  By the lifting of one eyelash, I will not stain it.”

“My dear, you are perfectly charming.  You always convince me that I am a better woman than I imagine myself.  I shall go straight to Dick, and tell him how exactly proper you are.  Really, you have more perfections than any one woman has a right to.”

“To-morrow, if I have a letter ready, you will take it?”

“I will run the risk, child.  But really, if you could see the way mine host of the ‘King’s Arms’ looks at me, you would be sensible of my courage.  I am persuaded he thinks I carry you under my new wadded cloak.  Now, adieu.  Return to your evergreens and ribbons.

                    “’For your own true love,
                    Tie the splendid orange,
                    Orange still above!’”

And so, lightly humming Katharine’s favourite song, she left the busy house.

Before daylight the next morning, Batavius had every one at his post.  The ceremony was to be performed in the Middle Kirk, and he took care that Joanna kept neither Dominie de Ronde nor himself waiting.  He was exceedingly gratified to find the building crowded when the wedding party arrived.  Joanna’s dress had cost a guinea a yard, his own broadcloth and satin were of the finest quality, and he felt that the good citizens who respected him ought to have an opportunity to see how deserving he was of their esteem.  Joanna, also, was a beautiful bride; and the company was entirely composed of men of honour and substance, and women of irreproachable characters, dressed with that solid magnificence gratifying to a man who, like Batavius, dearly loved respectability.

Katherine looked for Mrs. Gordon in vain; she was not in the kirk, and she did not arrive until the festival dinner was nearly over.  Batavius was then considerably under the excitement of his fine position and fine fare.  He sat by the side of his bride, at the right hand of Joris; and Katherine assisted her mother at the other end of the table.  Peter Block, the first mate of the “Great Christopher,” was just beginning to sing a song,—­a foolish, sentimental ditty for so big and bluff a fellow,—­in which some girl was thus entreated,—­

“Come, fly with me, my own fair love;
My bark is waiting in the bay,
And soon its snowy wings will speed
To happy lands so far away,

“And there, for us, the rose of love
Shall sweetly bloom and never die. 
Oh, fly with me!  We’ll happy be
Beneath fair Java’s smiling sky.”

“Peter, such nonsense as you sing,” said Batavius, with all the authority of a skipper to his mate.  “How can a woman fly when she has no wings?  And to say any bark has wings is not the truth.  And what kind of rose is the rose of love?  Twelve kinds of roses I have chosen for my new garden, but that kind I never heard of; and I will not believe in any rose that never dies.  And you also have been to Java; and well you know of the fever and blacks, and the sky that is not smiling, but hot as the place which is not heaven.  No respectable person would want to be a married man in Java.  I never did.”

“Sing your own songs, skipper.  By yourself you measure every man.  If to the kingdom of heaven you did not want to go, astonished and angry you would be that any one did not like the place which is not heaven.”

“Come, friends and neighbours,” said Joris cheerily, “I will sing you a song; and every one knows the tune to it, and every one has heard their vaders and their moeders sing it,—­sometimes, perhaps, on the great dikes of Vaderland, and sometimes in their sweet homes that the great Hendrick Hudson found out for them.  Now, then, all, a song for

“’MOEDER HOLLAND.

“’We have taken our land from the sea,
Its fields are all yellow with grain,
Its meadows are green on the lea,—­
And now shall we give it to Spain? 
No, no, no, no!

“’We have planted the faith that is pure,
That faith to the end we’ll maintain;
For the word and the truth must endure. 
Shall we bow to the Pope and to Spain? 
No, no, no, no!

“’Our ships are on every sea,
Our honour has never a stain,
Our law and our commerce are free: 
Are we slaves for the tyrant of Spain? 
No, no, no, no!

“’Then, sons of Batavia, the spade,—­
The spade and the pike and the main,
And the heart and the hand and the blade;
Is there mercy for merciless Spain? 
No, no, no, no!’”

By this time the enthusiasm was wonderful.  The short, quick denials came hotter and louder at every verse; and it was easy to understand how these large, slow men, once kindled to white heat, were both irresistible and unconquerable.  Every eye was turned to Joris, who stood in his massive, manly beauty a very conspicuous figure.  His face was full of feeling and purpose, his large blue eyes limpid and shining; and, as the tumult of applause gradually ceased, he said,—­

[Illustration:  “Listen to me!”]

“My friends and neighbours, no poet am I; but always wrongs burn in the heart until plain prose cannot utter them.  Listen to me.  If we wrung the Great Charter and the right of self-taxation from Mary in A.D. 1477; if in A.D. 1572 we taught Alva, by force of arms, how dear to us was our maxim, ’No taxation without representation,’—­

“Shall we give up our long-cherished right? 
Make the blood of our fathers in vain? 
Do we fear any tyrant to fight? 
Shall we hold out our hands for the chain? 
No, no, no, no!”

Even the women had caught fire at this allusion to the injustice of the Stamp Act and Quartering Acts, then hanging over the liberties of the Province; and Mrs. Gordon looked curiously and not unkindly at the latent rebels.  “England will have foemen worthy of her steel if she turns these good friends into enemies,” she reflected; and then, following some irresistible impulse, she rose with the company, at the request of Joris, to sing unitedly the patriotic invocation,—­

“O Vaderland, can we forget thee,—­
Thy courage, thy glory, thy strife? 
O Moeder Kirk, can we forget thee? 
No, never! no, never! through life. 
No, no, no, no!”

The emotion was too intense to be prolonged; and Joris instantly pushed back his chair, and said, “Now, then, friends, for the dance.  Myself I think not too old to take out the bride.”

Neil Semple, who had looked like a man in a dream during the singing, went eagerly to Katherine as soon as Joris spoke of dancing.  “He felt strong enough,” he said, “to tread a measure in the bride dance, and he hoped she would so far honour him.”

“No, I will not, Neil.  I will not take your hands.  Often I have told you that.”

“Just for to-night, forgive me, Katherine.”

“I am sorry that all must end so; I cannot dance any more with you;” and then she affected to hear her mother calling, and left him standing among the jocund crowd, hopeless and distraught with grief.  He was not able to recover himself, and the noise and laughter distracted and made him angry.  He had expected so much from this occasion, from its influence and associations; and it had been altogether a disappointment.  Mrs. Gordon’s presence troubled him, and he was not free from jealousy regarding the young dominie.  He had received a call from a church in Haarlem; and the Consistory had requested him to become a member of the Coetus, and accept it.  Joris had interested himself much in his favour; Katherine listened with evident pleasure to his conversation.  The fire of jealousy burns with very little fuel; and Neil went away from Joanna’s wedding-feast hating very cordially the young and handsome Dominie Lambertus Van Linden.

The elder noticed every thing, and he was angry at this new turn in affairs.  He felt as if Joris had purposely brought the dominie into his house to further embarrass Neil; and he said to his wife after their return home, “Janet, our son Neil has lost the game for Katherine Van Heemskirk.  I dinna care a bodle for it now.  A man that gets the woman he wants vera seldom gets any other gude thing.”

“Elder!”

“Ah, weel, there’s excepts!  I hae mind o’ them.  But Neil won’t be long daunted.  I looked in on him as I cam’ upstairs.  He was sitting wi’ a law treatise, trying to read his trouble awa’.  He’s a brave soul.  He’ll hae honours and charges in plenty; and there’s vera few women that are worth a gude office—­if you hae to choose atween them.”

“You go back on your ain words, Elder.  Tak’ a sleep to yoursel’.  Your pillow may gie you wisdom.”

And, while this conversation was taking place, they heard the pleasant voices of Van Heemskirk’s departing guests, as, with snatches of song and merry laughter, they convoyed Batavius and his bride to their own home.  And, when they got there, Batavius lifted up his lantern and showed them the motto he had chosen for its lintel; and it passed from lip to lip, till it was lifted altogether, and the young couple crossed their threshold to his ringing good-will,—­

“Poverty—­always a day’s sail behind us!”

[Illustration:  Tail-piece]

[Illustration:  Chapter heading]