The Bow of Orange Ribbon: A Romance of New York

“Now many memories make solicitous The delicate love lines of her mouth, till, lit With quivering fire, the words take wing from it; As here between our kisses we sit thus Speaking of things remembered, and so sit Speechless while things forgotten call to us.”

Joanna’s wedding occurred at the beginning of the winter and the winter festivities.  But, amid all the dining and dancing and skating, there was a political anxiety and excitement that leavened strongly every social and domestic event.  The first Colonial Congress had passed the three resolutions which proved to be the key-note of resistance and of liberty.  Joris had emphatically indorsed its action.  The odious Stamp Act was to be met by the refusal of American merchants either to import English goods, or to sell them upon commission, until it was repealed.  Homespun became fashionable.  During the first three months of the year, it was a kind of disgrace to wear silk or satin or broadcloth; and a great fair was opened for the sale of articles of home manufacture.  The Government kept its hand upon the sword.  The people were divided into two parties, bitterly antagonistic to each other.  The “Sons of Liberty” were keeping guard over the pole which symbolized their determination; the British soldiery were swaggering and boasting and openly insulting patriots on the streets; and the “New York Gazette,” in flaming articles, was stimulating to the utmost the spirit of resistance to tyranny.

And these great public interests had in every family their special modifications.  Joris was among the two hundred New York merchants who put their names to the resolutions of the October Congress; Bram was a conspicuous member of the “Sons of Liberty;” but Batavius, though conscientiously with the people’s party, was very sensible of the annoyance and expense it put him to.  Only a part of his house was finished, but the building of the rest was in progress; and many things were needed for its elegant completion, which were only to be bought from Tory importers, and which had been therefore nearly doubled in value.  When liberty interfered with the private interests of Batavius, he had his doubts as to whether it was liberty.  Often Bram’s overt disloyalty irritated him beyond endurance.  For, since he had joined the ranks of married men and householders, Batavius felt that unmarried men ought to wait for the opinions and leadership of those who had responsibilities.

Joanna talked precisely as Batavius talked.  All of his enunciations met with her “Amen.”  There are women who are incapable of but one affection,—­that one which affects them in especial,—­and Joanna was of this order.  “My husband” was perpetually on her tongue.  She looked upon her position as a wife and housekeeper as unique.  Other woman might have, during the past six thousand years, held these positions in an indifferent kind of way; but only she had ever comprehended and properly fulfilled the duties they involved.  Madam Van Heemskirk smiled a little when Joanna gave her advices about her house and her duties, when she disapproved of her father’s political attitude, when she looked injured by Bram’s imprudence.

“Not only is wisdom born with Joanna and Batavius, it will also die with them; so they think,” said Katharine indignantly, after one of Joanna’s periodical visitations.

A tear twinkled in madam’s eyes; but she answered, “I shall not distress myself overmuch.  Always I have said, ’Joanna has a little soul.  Only what is for her own good can she love.’”

“It is Batavius; and a woman must love her husband, mother.”

“That is the truth:  first and best of all, she must love him, Katherine; but not as the dog loves and fawns on his master, or the squaw bends down to her brave.  A good woman gives not up her own principles and thoughts and ways.  A good woman will remember the love of her father and mother and brother and sister, her old home, her old friends; and contempt she will not feel and show for the things of the past, which often, for her, were far better than she was worthy of.”

“There is one I love, mother, love with all my soul.  For him I would die.  But for thee also I would die.  Love thee, mother?  I love thee and my father better because I love him.  My mother, fret thee not, nor think that ever Joanna can really forget thee.  If a daughter could forget her good father and her good mother, then with the women who sit weeping in the outer darkness, God would justly give her her portion.  Such a daughter could not be.”

Lysbet sadly shook her head.  “When I was a little girl, Katherine, I read in a book about the old Romans, how a wicked daughter over the bleeding corpse of her father drove her chariot.  She wanted his crown for her own husband; and over the warm, quivering body of her father she drove.  When I read that story, Katherine, my eyes I covered with my hands.  I thought such a wicked woman in the world could not be.  Alas, mijn kind! often since then I have seen daughters over the bleeding hearts of their mothers and fathers drive; and frown and scold and be much injured and offended if once, in their pain and sorrow, they cry out.”

“But this of me remember, mother:  if I am not near thee, I shall be loving thee, thinking of thee; telling my husband, and perhaps my little children about thee,—­how good thou art, how pretty, how wise.  I will order my house as thou hast taught me, and my own dear ones will love me better because I love thee.  If to my own mother I be not true, can my husband be sure I will be true to him, if comes the temptation strong enough?  Sorry would I be if my heart only one love could hold, and ever the last love the strong love.”

Still, in spite of this home trouble, and in spite of the national anxiety, the winter months went with a delightsome peace and regularity in the Van Heemskirk household.  Neil Semple ceased to visit Katherine after Joanna’s wedding.  There was no quarrel, and no interruption to the kindness that had so long existed between the families; frequently they walked from kirk together,—­Madam Semple and Madam Van Heemskirk, Joris and the elder, Katherine and Neil.  But Neil never again offered her his hand; and such conversation as they had was constrained and of the most conventional character.

Very frequently, also, Dominic Van Linden spent the evening with them.  Joris delighted in his descriptions of Java and Surinam; and Lysbet and Katherine knit their stockings, and listened to the conversation.  It was evident that the young minister was deeply in love, and equally evident that Katharine’s parents favoured his suit.  But the lover felt, that, whenever he attempted to approach her as a lover, Katherine surrounded herself with an atmosphere that froze the words of admiration or entreaty upon his lips.

Joris, however, spoke for him.  “He has told me how truly he loves thee.  Like an honest man he loves thee, and he will make thee a wife honoured of many.  No better husband can thou have, Katherine.”  So spoke her father to her one evening in the early spring, as they stood together over the budding snowdrops and crocus.

[Illustration:  They stood together over the budding snowdrops]

“There is no love in my heart for him, father.”

“Neil pleases thee not, nor the dominie.  Whom is it thou would have, then?  Surely not that Englishman now?  The whole race I hate,—­swaggering, boastful tyrants, all of them.  I will not give thee to any Englishman.”

“If I marry not him, then will I stay with thee always.”

“Nonsense that is.  Thou must marry, like other women.  But not him; I would never forgive thee; I would never see thy face again.”

“Very hard art thou to me.  I love Richard; can I love this one and then that one?  If I were so light-of-love, contempt I should have from all, even from thee.”

“Now, I have something to say.  I have heard that some one,—­very like to thee,—­some one went twice or three times with Mrs. Gordon to see the man when he lay ill at the ‘King’s Arms.’  To such talk, my anger and my scorn soon put an end; and I will not ask of thee whether it be true, or whether it be false.  For a young girl I can feel.”

“O father, if for me thou could feel!”

“See, now, if I thought this man would be to thee a good husband, I would say, ‘God made him, and God does not make all his men Dutchmen;’ and I would forgive him his light, loose life, and his wicked wasting of gold and substance, and give thee to him, with thy fortune and with my blessing.  But I think he will be to thee a careless husband.  He will get tired of thy beauty; thy goodness he will not value; thy money he will soon spend.  Three sweethearts had he in New York before thee.  Their very names, I dare say, he hath forgotten ere this.”

“If Richard could make you sure, father, that he would be a good husband, would you then be content that we should be married?”

“That he cannot do.  Can the night make me sure it is the day?  Once very much I respected Batavius.  I said, ’He is a strict man of business; honourable, careful, and always apt to make a good bargain.  He does not drink nor swear, and he is a firm member of the true Church.  He will make my Joanna a good husband.’  That was what I thought.  Now I see that he is a very small, envious, greedy man; and like himself he quickly made thy sister.  This is what I fear:  if thou marry that soldier, either thou must grow like him, or else he will hate thee, and make thee miserable.”

“Just eighteen I am.  Let us not talk of husbands.  Why are you so hurried, father, to give me to this strange dominie?  Little is known of him but what he says.  It is easy for him to speak well of Lambertus Van Linden.”

“The committee from the Great Consistory have examined his testimonials.  They are very good.  And I am not in a hurry to give thee away.  What I fear is, that thou wilt be a foolish woman, and give thyself away.”

Katherine stood with dropped head, looking apparently at the brown earth, and the green box borders, and the shoots of white and purple and gold.  But what she really saw, was the pale, handsome face of her sick husband, its pathetic entreaty for her love, its joyful flush, when with bridal kisses he whispered, “Wife, wife, wife!”

Joris watched her curiously.  The expression on her face he could not understand.  “So happy she looks!” he thought, “and for what reason?” Katherine was the first to speak.

“Who has told you anything about Captain Hyde, father?”

“Many have spoken.”

“Does he get back his good health again?”

“I hear that.  When the warm days come, to England he is going.  So says Jacob Cohen.  What has Mrs. Gordon told thee? for to see her I know thou goes.”

“Twice only have I been.  I heard not of England.”

“But that is certain.  He will go, and what then?  Thee he will quite forget, and never more will thou see or hear tell of him.”

“That I believe not.  In the cold winter one would have said of these flowers, ‘They come no more.’  But the winter goes away, and then here they are.  Richard has been in the dead valley, der shaduwe des doods.  Sometimes I thought, he will come back to me no more.  But now I am sure I shall see him again.”

Joris turned sadly away.  That night he did not speak to her more.  But he had the persistence which is usually associated with slow natures.  He could not despair.  He felt that he must go steadily on trying to move Katherine to what he really believed was her highest interest.  And he permitted nothing to discourage him for very long.  Dominie Van Linden was also a prudent man.  He had no intention in his wooing to make haste and lose speed.  As to Katherine’s love troubles, he had not been left in ignorance of them.  A great many people had given him such information as would enable him to keep his own heart from the wiles of the siren.  He had also a wide knowledge of books and life, and in the light of this knowledge he thought that he could understand her.  But the conclusion that he deliberately came to was, that Katherine had cared neither for Hyde nor Semple, and that the unpleasant termination of their courtship had made her shy of all lover-like attentions.  He believed that if he advanced cautiously to her he might have the felicity of surprising and capturing her virgin affection.  And just about so far does any amount of wisdom and experience help a man in a love perplexity; because every mortal woman is a different woman, and no two can be wooed and won in precisely the same way.

Amid all these different elements, political, social, and domestic, Nature kept her own even, unvarying course.  The gardens grew every day fairer, the air more soft and balmy, the sunshine warmer and more cherishing.  Katherine was not unhappy.  As Hyde grew stronger, he spent his hours in writing long letters to his wife.  He told her every trivial event, he commented on all she told him.  And her letters revealed to him a soul so pure, so true, so loving, that he vowed “he fell in love with her afresh every day of his life.”  Katherine’s communications reached her husband readily by the ordinary post; Hyde’s had to be sent through Mrs. Gordon.  But it was evident from the first that Katherine could not call there for them.  Colonel Gordon would soon have objected to being made an obvious participant in his nephew’s clandestine correspondence; and Joris would have decidedly interfered with visits sure to cause unpleasant remarks about his daughter.  The medium was found in the mantua-maker, Miss Pitt.  Mrs. Gordon was her most profitable customer, and Katherine went there for needles and threads and such small wares as are constantly needed in a household.  And whenever she did so, Miss Pitt was sure to remark, in an after-thought kind of way, “Oh, I had nearly forgotten, miss!  Here is a small parcel that Mrs. Gordon desired me to present to you.”

One exquisite morning in May, Katherine stood at an open window looking over the garden and the river, and the green hills and meadows across the stream.  Her heart was full of hope.  Richard’s recovery was so far advanced that he had taken several rides in the middle of the day.  Always he had passed the Van Heemskirks’ house, and always Katherine had been waiting to rain down upon his lifted face the influence of her most bewitching beauty and her tenderest smiles.  She was thinking of the last of these events,—­of Richard’s rapid exhibition of a long, folded paper, and the singular and emphatic wave which he gave it towards the river.  His whole air and attitude had expressed delight and hope; could he really mean that she was to meet him again at their old trysting-place?

[Illustration:  His whole air and attitude had expressed delight]

As thus she happily mused, some one called her mother from the front hall.  On fine mornings it was customary to leave the door standing open; and the visitor advanced to the foot of the stairs, and called once more, “Lysbet Van Heemskirk!  Is there naebody in to bid me welcome?” Then Katherine knew it was Madam Semple; and she ran to her mother’s room, and begged her to go down and receive the caller.  For in these days Katherine dreaded Madam Semple a little.  Very naturally, the mother blamed her for Neil’s suffering and loss of time and prestige; and she found it hard to forgive also her positive rejection of his suit.  For her sake, she herself had been made to suffer mortification and disappointment.  She had lost her friends in a way which deprived her of all the fruits of her kindness.  The Gordons thought Neil had transgressed all the laws of hospitality.  The Semples had a similar charge to make.  And it provoked Madam Semple that Mrs. Gordon continued her friendship with Katherine.  Every one else blamed Katherine altogether in the matter; Mrs. Gordon had defied the use and wont of society on such occasions, and thrown the whole blame on Neil.  Somehow, in her secret heart, she even blamed Lysbet a little.  “Ever since I told her there was an earldom in the family, she’s been daft to push her daughter into it,” was her frequent remark to the elder; and he also reflected that the proposed alliance of Neil and Katharine had been received with coolness by Joris and Lysbet.  “It was the soldier or the dominie, either o’ them before our Neil;” and, though there was no apparent diminution of friendship, Semple and his wife frequently had a little private grumble at their own fireside.

And toward Neil, Joris had also a secret feeling of resentment.  He had taken no pains to woo Katherine until some one else wanted her.  It was universally conceded that he had been the first to draw his sword, and thus indulge his own temper at the expense of their child’s good name and happiness.  Taking these faults as rudimentary ones, Lysbet could enlarge on them indefinitely; and Joris had undoubtedly been influenced by his wife’s opinions.  So, below the smiles and kind words of a long friendship, there was bitterness.  If there had not been, Janet Semple would hardly have paid that morning visit; for before Lysbet was half way down the stairs, Katherine heard her call out,—­

“Here’s a bonnie come of.  But it is what a’ folks expected.  ’The Dauntless’ sailed the morn, and Captain Earle wi’ a contingent for the West Indies station.  And who wi’ him, guess you, but Captain Hyde, and no less?  They say he has a furlough in his pocket for a twelvemonth:  more like it’s a clean, total dismissal.  The gude ken it ought to be.”

So much Katherine heard, then her mother shut to the door of the sitting-room.  A great fear made her turn faint and sick.  Were her father’s words true?  Was this the meaning of the mysterious wave of the folded paper toward the ocean?  The suspicion once entertained, she remembered several little things which strengthened it.  Her heart failed her; she uttered a low cry of pain, and tottered to a chair, like one wounded.

It was then ten o’clock.  She thought the noon hour would never come.  Eagerly she watched for Bram and her father; for any certainty would be better than such cruel fear and suspense.  And, if Richard had really gone, the fact would be known to them.  Bram came first.  For once she felt impatient of his political enthusiasm.  How could she care about liberty poles and impressed fishermen, with such a real terror at her heart?  But Bram said nothing; only, as he went out, she caught him looking at her with such pitiful eyes.  “What did he mean?” She turned coward then, and could not voice the question.  Joris was tenderly explicit.  He said to her at once, “‘The Dauntless’ sailed this morning.  Oh, my little one, sorry I am for thee!”

“Is he gone?” Very low and slow were the words; and Joris only answered, “Yes.”

Without any further question or remark, she went away.  They were amazed at her calmness.  And for some minutes after she had locked the door of her room, she stood still in the middle of the floor, more like one that has forgotten something, and is trying to remember, than a woman who has received a blow upon her heart.  No tears came to her eyes.  She did not think of weeping, or reproaching, or lamenting.  The only questions she asked herself were, “How am I to get life over?  Will such suffering kill me very soon?”

Joris and Lysbet talked it over together.  “Cohen told me,” said Joris, “that Captain Hyde called to bid him good-by.  He said, ’He is a very honourable young man, a very grateful young man, and I rejoice that I was helpful in saving his life.’  Then I asked him in what ship he was to sail, and he said ‘The Dauntless.’  She left her moorings this morning between nine and ten.  She carries troops to Kingston, Captain Earle in command; and I heard that Captain Hyde has a year’s furlough.”

Lysbet drew her lips tight, and said nothing.  The last shadow of her own dream had departed also, but it was of her child she thought.  At that hour she hated Hyde; and, after Joris had gone, she said in low, angry tones, over and over, as she folded the freshly ironed linen, “I wish that Neil had killed him!” About two o’clock she went to Katherine.  The girl opened her door at once to her.  There was nothing to be said, no hope to offer.  Joris had seen Hyde embark; he had heard Mrs. Gordon and the colonel bid him farewell.  Several of his brother officers, also, and the privates of his own troop, had been on the dock to see him sail.  His departure was beyond dispute.

And even while she looked at the woeful young face before her, the mother anticipated the smaller, festering sorrows that would spring from this great one,—­the shame and mortification the mockery of those who had envied Katherine; the inquiries, condolences, and advices of friends; the complacent self-congratulation of Batavius, who would be certain to remind them of every provoking admonition he had given on the subject.  And who does not know that these little trials of life are its hardest trials?  The mother did not attempt to say one word of comfort, or hope, or excuse.  She only took the child in her arms, and wept for her.  At this hour she would not wound her by even an angry word concerning him.

“I loved him so much, moeder.”

“Thou could not help it.  Handsome, and gallant, and gay he was.  I never shall forget seeing thee dance with him.”

“And he did love me.  A woman knows when she is loved.”

“Yes, I am sure he loved thee.”

“He has gone?  Really gone?”

“No doubt is there of it.  Stay in thy room, and have thy grief out with thyself.”

“No; I will come to my work.  Every day will now be the same.  I shall look no more for any joy; but my duty I will do.”

They went downstairs together.  The clean linen, the stockings that required mending, lay upon the table.  Katherine sat down to the task.  Resolutely, but almost unconsciously, she put her needle through and through.  Her suffering was pitiful; this little one, who a few months ago would have wept for a cut finger, now silently battling with the bitterest agony that can come to a loving woman,—­the sense of cruel, unexpected, unmerited desertion.  At first Lysbet tried to talk to her; but she soon saw that the effort to answer was beyond Katherine’s power, and conversation was abandoned.  So for an hour, an hour of speechless sorrow, they sat.  The tick of the clock, the purr of the cat, the snap of a breaking thread, alone relieved the tension of silence in which this act of suffering was completed.  Its atmosphere was becoming intolerable, like that of a nightmare; and Lysbet was feeling that she must speak and move, and so dissipate it, when there was a loud knock at the front door.

Katherine trembled all over.  “To-day I cannot bear it, mother.  No one can I see.  I will go upstairs.”

Ere the words were finished, Mrs. Gordon’s voice was audible.  She came into the room laughing, with the smell of fresh violets and the feeling of the brisk wind around her.  “Dear madam,” she cried, “I entreat you for a favour.  I am going to take the air this afternoon:  be so good as to let Katherine come with me.  For I must tell you that the colonel has orders for Boston, and I may see my charming friend no more after to-day.”

“Katherine, what say you?  Will you go?”

“Please, mijn moeder.”

“Make great haste, then.”  For Lysbet was pleased with the offer, and fearful that Joris might arrive, and refuse to let his daughter accept it.  She hoped that Katherine would receive some comforting message; and she was glad that on this day, of all others, Captain Hyde’s aunt should be seen with her.  It would in some measure stop evil surmises; and it left an air of uncertainty about the captain’s relationship to Katherine, which made the humiliation of his departure less keen.

[Illustration:  “I am going to take the air this afternoon”]

“Stay not long,” she whispered, “for your father’s sake.  There is no good, more trouble to give him.”

“Well, my dear, you look like a ghost.  Have you not one smile for a woman so completely in your interest?  When I promised Dick this morning that I would be sure to get word to you, I was at my wits’ end to discover a way.  But, when I am between the horns of a dilemma, I find it the best plan to take the bull by the horns.  Hence, I have made you a visit which seems to have quite nonplussed you and your good mother.”

“I thought Richard had gone.”

“And you were breaking your heart, that is easy to be seen.  He has gone, but he will come back to-night at eight o’clock.  No matter what happens, be at the river-side.  Do not fail Dick:  he is taking his life in his hand to see you.”

“I will be there.”

“La! what are you crying for, child?  Poor girl!  What are you crying for?  Dick, the scamp?  He is not worthy of such pure tears; and yet, believe me, he loves you to distraction.”

“I thought he had gone—­gone, without a word.”

“Faith, you are not complimentary!  I flatter myself that our Dick is a gentleman.  I do, indeed.  And, as he is yet perfectly in his senses, you might have trusted him.”

“And you, do you go to Boston to-morrow?”

“The colonel does.  At present, I have no such intentions.  But I had to have some extraordinary excuse, and I could invent no other.  However, you may say anything, if you only say it with an assurance.  Madam wished me a pleasant journey.  I felt a little sorry to deceive so fine a lady.”

“When will Richard return?”

“Indeed, I think you will have to answer for his resolves.  But he will speak for himself; and, in faith, I told him that he had come to a point where I would be no longer responsible for his actions.  I am thankful to own that I have some conscience left.”

The ride was not a very pleasant one.  Katherine could not help feeling that Mrs. Gordon was distrait and inconsistent; and, towards its close, she became very silent.  Yet she kissed her kindly, and drawing her closely for a last word, said, “Do not forget to wear your wadded cloak and hood.  You may have to take the water; for the councillor is very suspicious, let me tell you.  Remember what I say,—­the wadded cloak and hood; and good-by, good-by, my dear.”

“Shall I see you soon?”

“When we may meet again, I do not pretend to say; till then, I am entirely yours; and so again good-by.”

The ride had not occupied an hour; but, when Katherine got home, Lysbet was making tea.  “A cup will be good for you, mijn kind.”  And she smiled tenderly in the face that had been so white in its woeful anguish, but on which there was now the gleam of hope.  And she perceived that Katherine had received some message, she even divined that there might be some appointment to keep; and she determined not to be too wise and prudent, but to trust Katherine for this evening with her own destiny.

That night there was a meeting at the Town Hall, and Joris left the house soon after his tea.  He was greatly touched by Katharine’s effort to appear cheerful; and when she followed him to the door, and, ere he opened it, put her arms round his neck, and kissed him, murmuring, “My father, mijn vader!” he could not restrain his tears.

“Mijn kind, my liefste kind!” he answered.  And then his soul in its great emotion turned affectionately to the supreme fatherhood; for he whispered to himself, as he walked slowly and solemnly in the pleasant evening light:  “‘Gelijk sich een vader outfermt over de kinderen!’ Oh, so great must be Thy pity!  My own heart can tell that now.”

For an hour or more Katherine sat in the broad light of the window, folding and unfolding the pieces of white linen, sewing a stitch or two here, and putting on a button or tape there.  Madam passed quietly to and fro about her home duties, sometimes stopping to say a few words to her daughter.  It was a little interval of household calm, full of household work; of love assured without need of words, of confidence anchored in undoubting souls.  When Lysbet was ready to do so, she began to lay into the deep drawers of the presses the table-linen which Katherine had so neatly and carefully examined.  Over a pile of fine damask napkins she stood, with a perplexed, annoyed face; and Katherine, detecting it, at once understood the cause.

“One is wanting of the dozen, mother.  At the last cake-baking, with the dish of cake sent to Joanna it went.  Back it has not come.”

“For it you might go, Katherine.  I like not that my sets are broken.”

Katherine blushed scarlet.  This was the opportunity she wanted.  She wondered if her mother suspected the want; but Lysbet’s face expressed only a little worry about the missing damask.  Slowly, though her heart beat almost at her lips, she folded away her work, and put her needle, and thread, and thimble, and scissors, each in its proper place in her house-wife.  So deliberate were all her actions, that Lysbet’s suspicions were almost allayed.  Yet she thought, “If out she wishes to go, leave I have now given her; and, if not, still the walk will do her some good.”  And yet there was in her heart just that element of doubt, which, whenever it is present, ought to make us pause and reconsider the words we are going to speak or write, and the deed we are going to do.

The nights were yet chilly,—­though the first blooms were on the trees,—­and the wadded cloak and hood were not so far out of season as to cause remark.  As she came downstairs, the clock struck seven.  There was yet an hour, and she durst not wait so long at the bottom of the garden while it was early in the evening.  When her work was done, Lysbet frequently walked down it; she had a motherly interest in the budding fruit-trees and the growing flowers.  And a singular reluctance to leave home assailed Katherine.  If she had known that it was to be forever, her soul could not have more sensibly taken its farewell of all the dear, familiar objects of her daily life.  About her mother this feeling culminated.  She found her cap a little out of place; and her fingers lingered in the lace, and stroked fondly her hair and pink cheeks, until Lysbet felt almost embarrassed by the tender, but unusual show of affection.

“Now, then, go, my Katherine.  To Joanna give my dear love.  Tell her that very good were the cheesecakes and the krullers, and that to-morrow I will come over and see the new carpet they have bought.”

And while she spoke she was retying Katherine’s hood, and admiring as she did so the fair, sweet face in its quiltings or crimson satin, and the small, dimpled chin resting upon the fine bow she tied under it.  Then she followed her to the door, and watched her down the road until she saw her meet Dominie Van Linden, and stand a moment holding his hand.  “A message I am going for my mother,” she said, as she firmly refused his escort.  “Then with madam, your mother, I will sit until you return,” he replied cheerfully; and Katherine answered, “That will be a great pleasure to her, sir.”

A little farther she walked; but suddenly remembering that the dominie’s visit would keep her mother in the house, and being made restless by the gathering of the night shadows, she turned quickly, and taking the very road up which Hyde had come the night Neil Semple challenged him, she entered the garden by a small gate at its foot, which was intended for the gardener’s use.  The lilacs had not much foliage, but in the dim light her dark, slim figure was undistinguishable behind them.  Longingly and anxiously she looked up and down the water-way.  A mist was gathering over it; and there were no boats in the channel except two pleasure-shallops, already tacking to their proper piers.  “The Dauntless” had been out of sight for hours.  There was not the splash of an oar, and no other river sound at that point, but the low, peculiar “wish-h-h” of the turning tide.

In the pettiest character there are unfathomable depths; and Katherine’s, though yet undeveloped, was full of noble aspirations and singularly sensitive.  As she stood there alone, watching and waiting in the dim light, she had a strange consciousness of some mysterious life ante-dating this life! and of a long-forgotten voice filling the ear-chambers of that spiritual body which was the celestial inhabitant of her natural body. “Richard, Richard,” she murmured; and she never doubted but that he heard her.

All her senses were keenly on the alert.  Suddenly there was the sound of oars, and the measure was that of steady, powerful strokes.  She turned her face southward, and watched.  Like a flash a boat shot out of the shadow,—­a long, swift boat, that came like a Fate, rapidly and without hesitation, to her very feet.  Richard quickly left it and with a few strokes it was carried back into the dimness of the central channel.  Then he turned to the lilac-trees.

“Katherine!”

It was but a whisper, but she heard it.  He opened his arms, and she flew to their shelter like a bird to her mate.

“My love, my wife, my beautiful wife!  My true, good heart!  Now, at last my own; nothing shall part us again, Katherine,—­never again.  I have come for you—­come at all risks for you.  Only five minutes the boat can wait.  Are you ready?”

“I know not, Richard.  My father—­my mother”—­

“My husband!  Say that also, beloved.  Am I not first?  If you will not go with me, here I shall stay; and, as I am still on duty, death and dishonour will be the end.  O Katherine, shall I die again for you?  Will you break my sword in disgrace over my head!  Faith, darling, I know that you would rather die for me.”

“If one word I could send them!  They suspect me not.  They think you are gone.  It will kill my father.”

[Illustration:  “I will go with you, Richard”]

“You shall write to them on the ship.  There are a dozen fishing-boats near it.  We will send the letter by one of them.  They will get it early in the morning.  Sweet Kate, come.  Here is the boat.  ‘The Dauntless’ lies down the bay, and we have a long pull.  My wife, do you need more persuasion?”

He released her from his embrace with the words, and stood holding her hands, and looking into her face.  No woman is insensible to a certain kind of authority; and there was fascination as well as power in Hyde’s words and manner, emphasized by the splendour of his uniform, and the air of command that seemed to be a part of it.

“It is for you to decide, Katherine.  The boat is here.  Even I must obey or disobey orders.  Will you not go with me, your husband, to love and life and honour; or shall I stay with you, for disgrace and death?  For from you I will not part again.”

She had no time to consider how much truth there was in this desperate statement.  The boat was waiting.  Richard was wooing her consent with kisses and entreaties.  Her own soul urged her, not only by the joy of his presence, but by the memory of the anguish she had endured that day in the terror of his desertion.  From the first moment she had hesitated; therefore, from the first moment she had yielded.  She clung to her husband’s arm, she lifted her face to his, she said softly, but clearly, “I will go with you, Richard.  With you I will go.  Where to, I care not at all.”

They stepped into the boat, and Hyde said, “Oars.”  Not a word was spoken.  He held her within his left arm, close to his side, and partially covered with his military cloak.  It was the boat belonging to the commander of “The Dauntless,” and the six sailors manning it sent the light craft flying like an arrow down the bay.  All the past was behind her.  She had done what was irrevocable.  For joy or for sorrow, her place was evermore at her husband’s side.  Richard understood the decision she was coming to; knew that every doubt and fear had vanished when her hand stole into his hand, when she slightly lifted her face, and whispered, “Richard.”

They were practically alone upon the misty river; and Richard answered the tender call with sweet, impassioned kisses; with low, lover-like, encouraging words; with a silence that thrilled with such soft beat and subsidence of the spirit’s wing, as—­

“When it feels, in cloud-girt wayfaring,
The breath of kindred plumes against its feet.”

[Illustration:  Tail-piece]

[Illustration:  Chapter heading]