The Bow of Orange Ribbon: A Romance of New York

“Good people, how they wrangle! 
The manners that they never mend,
The characters they mangle! 
They eat and drink, and scheme and plod,
And go to church on Sunday;
And many are afraid of God,
And some of Mrs. Grundy.”

During that same hour Joris was in the town council.  There had been a stormy and prolonged session on the Quartering Act.  “To little purpose have we compelled the revocation of the Stamp Act,” he cried, “if the Quartering Act upon us is to be forced.  We want not English soldiers here.  In our homes why should we quarter them?”

All the way home he was asking himself the question; and, when he found Dominie Van Linden talking to Lysbet, he gladly discussed it over again with him.  Lysbet sat beside them, knitting and listening.  Until after nine o’clock Joris did not notice the absence of his daughter.  “She went to Joanna’s,” said Lysbet calmly.  No fear had yet entered her heart.  Perhaps she had a vague suspicion that Katherine might also go to Mrs. Gordon’s, and she was inclined to avoid any notice of the lateness of the hour.  If it were even ten o’clock when she returned, Lysbet intended to make no remarks.  But ten o’clock came, and the dominie went, and Joris suddenly became anxious about Katherine.

His first anger fell upon Bram.  “He ought to have been at home.  Then he could have gone for his sister.  He is not attentive enough to Katherine; and very fond is he of hanging about Miriam Cohen’s doorstep.”

“What say you, Joris, about Miriam Cohen?”

“I spoke in my temper.”

He would not explain his words, and Lysbet would not worry him about Katherine.  “To Joanna’s she went, and Batavius is in Boston.  Very well, then, she has stayed with her sister.”

Still, in her own heart there was a certain uneasiness.  Katherine had never remained all night before without sending some message, or on a previous understanding to that effect.  But the absence of Batavius, and the late hour at which she went, might account for the omission, especially as Lysbet remembered that Joanna’s servant had been sick, and might be unfit to come.  She was determined to excuse Katherine, and she refused to acknowledge the dumb doubt and fear that crouched at her own heart.

In the morning Joris rose very early and went into the garden.  Generally this service to nature calmed and cheered him; but he came to breakfast from it, silent and cross.  And Lysbet was still disinclined to open a conversation about Katharine.  She had enough to do to combat her own feeling on the subject; and she was sensible that Joris, in the absence of any definite object for his anger, blamed her for permitting Katherine so much liberty.

“Where, then, is Bram?” he asked testily.  “When I was a young man, it was the garden or the store for me before this hour.  Too much you indulge the children, Lysbet.”

“Bram was late to bed.  He was on the watch last night at the pole.  You know, Councillor, who in that kind of business has encouraged him.”

“Every night the watch is not for him.”

“Oh, then, but the bad habit is made!”

“Well, well; tell him to Joanna’s to go the first thing, and to send home Katherine.  I like her not in the house of Batavius.”

“Joanna is her sister, Joris.”

“Joanna is nothing at all in this world but the wife of Batavius.  Send for Katherine home.  I like her best to be with her mother.”

As he spoke, Bram came to the table, looking a little heavy and sleepy.  Joris rose without more words, and in a few moments the door shut sharply behind him.  “What is the matter with my father?”

“Cross he is.”  By this time Lysbet was also cross; and she continued, “No wonder at it.  Katherine has stayed at Joanna’s all night, and late to breakfast were you.  Yet ever since you were a little boy, you have heard your father say one thing, ’Late to breakfast, hurried at dinner, behind at supper;’ and I also have noticed, that, when the comfort of the breakfast is spoiled, then all the day its bad influence is felt.”

In the meantime Joris reached his store in that mood which apprehends trouble, and finds out annoyances that under other circumstances would not have any attention.  The store was in its normal condition, but he was angry at the want of order in it.  The mail was no later than usual, but he complained of its delay.  He was threatening a general reform in everything and everybody, when a man came to the door, and looked up at the name above it.

“Joris Van Heemskirk is the name, sir;” and Joris went forward, and asked a little curtly, “What, then, can I do for you?”

“I am Martin Hudde the fisherman.”

“Well, then?”

“If you are Joris Van Heemskirk, I have a letter for you.  I got it from ‘The Dauntless’ last night, when I was fishing in the bay.”

Without a word Joris took the letter, turned into his office, and shut the door; and Hudde muttered as he left, “I am glad that I got a crown with it, for here I have not got a ‘thank you.’”

It was Katherine’s writing; and Joris held the folded paper in his hand, and looked stupidly at it.  The truth was forcing itself into his mind, and the slow-coming conviction was a real physical agony to him.  He put his hand on the desk to steady himself; and Nature, in great drops of sweat, made an effort to relieve the oppression and stupor which followed the blow.  In a few minutes he opened and laid it before him.  Through a mist he made out these words: 

MY FATHER AND MY MOTHER:  I have gone with my husband.  I married Richard when he was ill, and to-night he came for me.  When I left home, I knew not I was to go.  Only five minutes I had.  In God’s name, this is the truth.  Always, at the end of the world, I shall love you.  Forgive me, forgive me, mijn fader, mijn moeder. 
                                             Your child,
                                                      KATHERINE HYDE.

He tore the letter into fragments; but the next moment he picked them up, folded them in a piece of paper, and put them in his pocket.  Then he went to Mrs. Gordon’s.  She had anticipated the visit, and was, in a measure, prepared for it.  With a smile and outstretched hands, she rose from her chocolate to meet him.  “You see, I am a terrible sluggard, Councillor,” she laughed; “but the colonel left early for Boston this morning, and I cried myself into another sleep.  And will you have a cup of chocolate?  I am sure you are too polite to refuse me.”

“Madam, I came not on courtesy, but for my daughter.  Where is my Katherine?”

“Truth, sir, I believe her to be where every woman wishes,—­with her husband.  I am sure I wish the colonel was with me.”

“Her husband!  Who, then?”

“Indeed, Councillor, that is a question easily answered,—­my nephew, Captain Hyde, at your service.  You perceive, sir, we are now connections; and I assure you I have the highest sense imaginable of the honour.”

“When were they married?”

“In faith, I have forgotten the precise date.  It was in last October; I know it was, because I had just received my winter manteau,—­my blue velvet one, with the fur bands.’

“Who married them?”

[Illustration:  “Madam, I come not on courtesy”]

“Oh, indeed!  It was the governor’s chaplain,—­the Rev. Mr. Somers, a relative of my Lord Somers, a most estimable and respectable person, I assure you.  Colonel Gordon, and Captain Earle, and myself, were the witnesses.  The governor gave the license; and, in consideration of Dick’s health, the ceremony was performed in his room.  All was perfectly correct and regular, I”—­

“It is not the truth.  Pardon, madam; full of trouble am I. And it was all irregular, and very wicked, and very cruel.  If regular and right it had been, then in secret it had not taken place.”

“Admit, Councillor, that then it had not taken place at all; or, at least, Richard would have had to wait until Katherine was of age.”

“So; and that would have been right.  Until then, if love had lasted, I would have said, ‘Their love is stronger than my dislike;’ and I would have been content.”

“Ah, sir, there was more to the question than that!  My nephew’s chances for life were very indifferent, and he desired to shield Katherine’s name with his own”—­

“Christus! What say you, madam?  Had Katherine no father?”

“Oh, be not so warm, Councillor!  A husband’s name is a far bigger shield than a father’s.  I assure you that the world forgives a married woman what it would not forgive an angel.  And I must tell you, also, that Dick’s very life depended on the contentment which he felt in his success.  It is the part of humanity to consider that.”

“Twice over deceived I have been then”—­

“In short, sir, there was no help for it.  Dick received a most unexpected favour of a year’s furlough two days ago.  It was important for his wounded lung that he should go at once to a warm climate.  ’The Dauntless’ was on the point of sailing for the West Indies.  To have bestowed our confidence on you, would have delayed or detained our patient, or sent him away without his wife.  It was my fault that Katherine had only five minutes given her.  Oh, sir, I know my own sex!  And, if you will take time to reflect, I am sure that you will be reasonable.”

“Without his wife!  His wife!  Without my consent?  No, she is not his wife.”

“Sir, you must excuse me if I do not honour your intelligence or your courtesy.  I have said ‘she is his wife.’  It is past a doubt that they are married.”

“I know not, I know not—­O my Katherine, my Katherine!”

“I pray you, sit down, Councillor.  You look faint and ill; and in faith I am very sorry that, to make two people happy, others must be made so wretched.”  She rose and filled a glass with wine, and offered it to Joris, who was the very image of mental suffering,—­all the fine colour gone out of his face, and his large blue eyes swimming in unshed tears.

“Drink, sir.  Upon my word, you are vastly foolish to grieve so.  I protest to you that Katherine is happy; and grieving will not restore your loss.”

“For that reason I grieve, madam.  Nothing can give me back my child.”

“Come, sir, every one has his calamity; and, upon my word, you are very fortunate to have one no greater than the marriage of your daughter to an agreeable man, of honourable profession and noble family.”

“Five minutes only!  How could the child think?  To take her away thus was cruel.  Many things a woman needs when she journeys.”

“Oh, indeed, Katharine was well considered!  I myself packed a trunk for her with every conceivable necessity, as well as gowns and manteaus of the finest material and the most elegant fashion.  If Dick had been permitted, he would have robbed the Province for her.  I assure you that I had to lock my trunks to preserve a change of gowns for myself.  When the colonel returns, he will satisfy you that Katherine has done tolerably well in her marriage with our nephew.  And, indeed, I must beg you to excuse me further.  I have been in a hurry of affairs and emotions for two days; and I am troubled with the vapours this morning, and feel myself very indifferently.”

Then Joris understood that he had been politely dismissed.  But there was no unkindness in the act.  He glanced at the effusive little lady, and saw that she was on the point of crying, and very likely in the first pangs of a nervous headache; and, without further words, he left her.

The interview had given Joris very little comfort.  At first, his great terror had been that Katherine had fled without any religious sanction; but no sooner was this fear dissipated, than he became conscious, in all its force, of his own personal loss and sense of grievance.  From Mrs. Gordon’s lodgings he went to those of Dominie Van Linden.  He felt sure of his personal sympathy; and he knew that the dominie would be the best person to investigate the circumstances of the marriage, and authenticate their propriety.

Then Joris went home.  On his road he met Bram, full of the first terror of his sister’s disappearance.  He told him all that was necessary, and sent him back to the store.  “And see you keep a modest face, and make no great matter of it,” he said.  “Be not troubled nor elated.  It belongs to you to be very prudent; for your sister’s good name is in your care, and this is a sorrow outsiders may not meddle with.  Also, at once go back to Joanna’s, and tell her the same thing.  I will not have Katherine made a wonder to gaping women.”

Lysbet was still a little on the defensive; but, when she saw Joris coming home, her heart turned sick with fear.  She was beating eggs for her cake-making, and she went on with the occupation; merely looking up to say, “Thee, Joris; dinner will not be ready for two hours!  Art thou sick?”

“Katherine—­she has gone!”

“Gone?  And where, then?”

“With that Englishman; in ‘The Dauntless’ they have gone.”

“Believe it not.  ‘The Dauntless’ left yesterday morning:  Katherine at seven o’clock last night was with me.”

“Ah, he must have returned for her!  Well he knew that if he did not steal her away, I had taken her from him.  Yes, and I feared him.  When I heard that ‘The Dauntless’ was to take him to the West Indies, I watched the ship.  After I kissed Katherine yesterday morning, I went straight to the pier, and waited until she was on her way.”  Then he told her all Mrs. Gordon had said, and showed her the fragments of Katherine’s letter.  The mother kissed them, and put them in her bosom; and, as she did so, she said softly, “it was a great strait, Joris.”

“Well, well, we also must pass through it.  The Dominie Van Linden has gone to examine the records; and then, if she his lawful wife be, in the newspapers I must advertise the marriage.  Much talk and many questions I shall have to bear.”

“‘If,’ ‘if she his lawful wife be!’ Say not ‘if’ in my hearing; say not ‘if’ of my Katherine.”

“When a girl runs away from her home”—­

“With her husband she went; keep that in mind when people speak to thee.”

“What kind of a husband will he be to her?”

“Well, then, I think not bad of him.  Nearer home there are worse men.  Now, if sensible thou be, thou wilt make the best of what is beyond thy power.  Every bird its own nest builds in its own way.  Nay, but blind birds are we all, and God builds for us.  This marriage of God’s ordering may be, though not of thy ordering; and against it I would no longer fight.  I think my Katherine is happy; and happy with her I will be, though the child in her joy I see not.”

“So much talk as there will be.  In the store and the streets, a man must listen.  And some with me will condole, and some with congratulations will come; and both to me will be vinegar and gall.”

“To all—­friends and unfriends—­say this:  ’Every one chooses for themselves.  Captain Hyde loved my daughter, and for her love nearly he died; and my daughter loved him; and what has been from the creation, will be.’  Say also, ’Worse might have come; for he hath a good heart, and in the army he is much loved, and of a very high family is he.’  Joris, let me see thee pluck up thy courage like a man.  Better may come of this than has come of things better looking.  Much we thought of Batavius”—­

“On that subject wilt thou be quiet?”

“And, if at poor little Katherine thou be angry, speak out thy mind to me; to others, say nothing but well of the dear one.  Now, then, I will get thee thy dinner; for in sorrow a good meal is a good medicine.”

[Illustration:  “O mother, my sister Katherine!”]

While they were eating this early dinner, Joanna came in, sad and tearful; and with loud lamentings she threw herself upon her mother’s shoulder.  “What, then, is the matter with thee?” asked Lysbet, with great composure.

“O mother, my Katherine! my sister Katherine!”

“I thought perhaps thou had bad news of Batavius.  Thy sister Katherine hath married a very fine gentleman, and she is happy.  For thou must remember that all the good men do not come from Dordrecht.”

“I am glad that so you take it.  I thought in very great sorrow you would be.”

“See that you do not say such words to any one, Joanna.  Very angry will I be if I hear them.  Batavius, also; he must be quiet on this matter.”

“Oh, then, Batavius has many things of greater moment to think about!  Of Katherine he never approved; and the talk there will be he will not like it.  Before from Boston he comes back, I shall be glad to have it over.”

“None of his affair it is,” said Joris.  “Of my own house and my own daughter, I can take the care.  And if he like the talk, or if he like not the talk, there it will be.  Who will stop talking because Batavius comes home?”

When Joris spoke in this tone on any subject, no one wished to continue it:  and it was not until her father had left the house, that Joanna asked her mother particularly about Katherine’s marriage.  “Was she sure of it?  Had they proofs?  Would it be legal?  More than a dozen people stopped me as I came over here,” she said, “and asked me about everything.”

“I know not how more than a dozen people knew of anything, Joanna.  But many ill-natured words will be spoken, doubtless.  Even Janet Semple came here yesterday, thinking over Katherine to exult a little.  But Katherine is a great deal beyond her to-day.  And perhaps a countess she may yet be.  That is what her husband said to thy father.”

“I knew not that he spoke to my father about Katherine.”

“Thou knows not all things.  Before thou wert married to Batavius, before Neil Semple nearly murdered him, he asked of thy father her hand.  Thou wast born on thy wedding day, I think.  All things that happened before it have from thy memory passed away.”

“Well, I am a good wife, I know that.  That also is what Batavius says.  Just before I got to the gate, I met Madam Semple and Gertrude Van Gaasbeeck; they had been shopping together.”

“Did they speak of Katherine?”

“Indeed they did.”

“Or did you speak first, Joanna?  It is an evil bird that pulls to pieces its own nest.”

“O mother, scolded I cannot be for Katherine’s folly!  My Batavius always said, ‘The favourite is Katherine.’  Always he thought that of me too much was expected.  And Madam Semple said—­and always she liked Katherine—­that very badly had she behaved for a whole year, and that the end was what everybody had looked for.  It is on me very hard,—­I who have always been modest, and taken care of my good name.  Nobody in the whole city will have one kind word to say for Katherine.  You will see that it is so, mother.”

“You will see something very different, Joanna.  Many will praise Katherine, for she to herself has done well.  And, when back she comes, at the governor’s she will visit, and with all the great ladies; and not one among them will be so lovely as Katherine Hyde.”

And, if Joanna had been in Madam Semple’s parlour a few hours later, she would have had a most decided illustration of Lysbet’s faith in the popular verdict.  Madam was sitting at her tea-table talking to the elder, who had brought home with him the full supplement to Joanna’s story.  Both were really sorry for their old friends, although there is something in the best kind of human nature that indorses the punishment of those things in which old friends differ from us.

Neil had heard nothing.  He had been shut up in his office all day over an important suit; and, when he took the street again, he was weary, and far from being inclined to join any acquaintances in conversation.  In fact, the absorbing topic was one which no one cared to introduce in Neil’s presence; and he himself was too full of professional matters to notice that he attracted more than usual attention from the young men standing around the store-doors, and the officers lounging in front of the ‘King’s Arms’ tavern.

He was irritable, too, with exhaustion, though he was doing his best to keep himself in control and when madam his mother said pointedly, “I’m fearing, Neil, that the bad news has made you ill; you arena at a’ like yoursel’,” he asked without much interest, “What bad news?”

“The news anent Katherine Van Heemskirk.”

He had supposed it was some political disappointment, and at Katherine’s name his pale face grew suddenly crimson.

“What of her?” he asked.

“Didna you hear?  She ran awa’ last night wi’ Captain Hyde; stole awa’ wi’ him on ‘The Dauntless.’”

“She would have the right to go with him, I have no doubt,” said Neil with guarded calmness.

“Do you really think she was his wife?”

“If she went with him, I am sure she was.”  He dropped the words with an emphatic precision, and looked with gloomy eyes out of the window; gloomy, but steadfast, as if he were trying to face a future in which there was no hope.  His mother did not observe him.  She went on prattling as she filled the elder’s cup, “If there had been any wedding worth the name o’ the thing, we would hae been bidden to it.  I dinna believe she is married.”

“Are you sure that she sailed with Captain Hyde in ‘The Dauntless,’ or is it a pack of women’s tales?”

“The news cam’ wi’ your fayther the elder,” answered madam, much offended.  “You can mak’ your inquiries there if you think he’s mair reliable than I am.”

Neil looked at his father, and the elder said quietly, “I wouldna be positive anent any woman; the bad are whiles good, and the good are whiles bad.  But there is nae doubt that Katherine has gone with Hyde; and I heard that the military at the ‘King’s Arms’ have been drinking bumpers to Captain Hyde and his bride; and I know that Mrs. Gordon has said they were married lang syne, when Hyde couldna raise himsel’ or put a foot to the ground.  But Joanna told your mother she had neither seen nor heard tell o’ book, ring, or minister; and, as I say, for mysel’ I’ll no venture a positive opinion, but I think the lassie is married to the man she’s off an’ awa’ wi’.”

“But if she isna?” persisted madam.

In a moment Neil let slip the rein in which he had been holding himself, and in a slow, intense voice answered, “I shall make it my business to find out.  If Katherine is married, God bless her!  If she is not, I will follow Hyde though it were around the world until I cleave his coward’s heart in two.”  His passion grew stronger with its utterance.  He pushed away his chair, and put down his cup so indifferently that it missed the table and fell with a crash to the floor.

[Illustration:  “Oh, my cheeny, my cheeny!”]

“Oh, my cheeny, my cheeny!  Oh, my bonnie cups that I hae used for forty years, and no’ a piece broken afore!”

“Ah, weel, Janet,” said the elder, “you shouldna badger an angry man when he’s drinking from your best cups.”

“I canna mend nor match it in the whole Province, Elder.  Oh, my bonnie cup.”

“I was thinking, Janet, o’ Katherine’s good name.  If it is gane, it is neither to mend nor to match in the whole wide world.  I’ll awa’ and see Joris and Lysbet.  And put every cross thought where you’ll never find them again, Janet; an tak’ your good-will in your hands, and come wi’ me.  Lysbet will want to see you.”

“Not her, indeed!  I can tell you, Elder, that Lysbet was vera cool and queer wi’ me yesterday.”

“Come, Janet, dinna keep your good-nature in remnants.  Let’s hae enough to make a cloak big enough to cover a’ bygone faults.”

“I think, then, I ought to stay wi’ Neil.”

“Neil doesna want anybody near him.  Leave him alane.  Neil’s a’ right.  Forty years syne I would hae broke my mother’s cheeny, and drawn steel as quick as Neil did, if I heard a word against bonnie Janet Gordon.”  And the old man made his wife a bow; and madam blushed with pleasure, and went upstairs to put on her bonnet and India shawl.

“Woman, woman,” meditated the smiling elder; “she is never too angry to be won wi’ a mouthful o’ sweet words, special if you add a bow or a kiss to them.  My certie! when a husband can get his ain way at sic a sma’ price, it’s just wonderfu’ he doesna buy it in perpetuity.”

Joris was somewhat comforted by his old friend’s sympathy; for the elder, in the hour of trial, knew how to be magnanimous.  But the father’s wound lay deeper than human love could reach.  He was suffering from what all suffer who are wounded in their affections; for alas, alas, how poorly do we love even those whom we love most!  We are not only bruised by the limitations of their love for us, but also by the limitations of our own love for them.  And those who know what it is to be strong enough to wrestle, and yet not strong enough to overcome, will understand how the grief, the anger, the jealousy, the resentment, from which he suffered, amazed Joris; he had not realized before the depth and strength of his feelings.

He tried to put the memory of Katherine away, but he could not accomplish a miracle.  The girl’s face was ever before him.  He felt her caressing fingers linked in his own; and, as he walked in his house and his garden, her small feet pattered beside him.  For as there are in creation invisible bonds that do not break like mortal bonds, so also there are correspondences subsisting between souls, despite the separation of distance.

“I would forget Katherine if I could,” he said to Dominie Van Linden; and the good man, bravely putting aside his private grief, took the hands of Joris in his own, and bending toward him, answered, “That would be a great pity.  Why forget?  Trust, rather, that out of sorrow God will bring to you joy.”

“Not natural is that, Dominie.  How can it be?  I do not understand how it can be.”

“You do not understand!  Well, then, och mijn jongen, what matters comprehension, if you have faith?  Trust, now, that it is well with the child.”

But Joris believed it was ill with her; and he blamed not only himself, but every one in connection with Katherine, for results which he was certain might have been foreseen and prevented.  Did he not foresee them?  Had he not spoken plainly enough to Hyde and to Lysbet and to the child herself?  He should have seen her to Albany, to her sister Cornelia.  For he believed now that Lysbet had not cordially disapproved of Hyde; and as for Joanna, she had been far too much occupied with Batavius and her own marriage to care for any other thing.  And one of his great fears was that Katherine also would forget her father and mother and home, and become a willing alien from her own people.

He was so wrapped up in his grief, that he did not notice that Bram was suffering also.  Bram got the brunt of the world’s wonderings and inquiries.  People who did not like to ask Joris questions, felt no such delicacy with Bram.  And Bram not only tenderly loved his sister:  he hated with the unreasoning passion of youth the entire English soldiery.  He made no exception now.  They were the visible marks of a subjection which he was sworn, heart and soul, to oppose.  It humiliated him among his fellows, that his sister should have fled with one of them.  It gave those who envied and disliked him an opportunity of inflicting covert and cruel wounds.  Joris could, in some degree, control himself; he could speak of the marriage with regret, but without passion; he had even alluded, in some cases, to Hyde’s family and expectations.  The majority believed that he was secretly a little proud of the alliance.  But Bram was aflame with indignation; first, if the marriage were at all doubted; second, if it were supposed to be a satisfactory one to any member of the Van Heemskirk family.

As to the doubters, they were completely silenced when the next issue of the “New York Gazette” appeared; for among its most conspicuous advertisements was the following: 

Married, Oct. 19, 1765, by the Rev. Mr. Somers, chaplain to his Excellency the Governor, Richard Drake Hyde, of Hyde Manor, Norfolk, son of the late Richard Drake Hyde, and brother of William Drake Hyde, Earl of Dorset and Hyde, to Katherine, the youngest daughter of Joris and Lysbet Van Heemskirk, of the city and province of New York.

Witnesses:  NIGEL GORDON, H.M.  Nineteenth
Light Cavalry. 
GEORGE EARLE, H.M.  Nineteenth
Light Cavalry. 
ADELAIDE GORDON, wife of Nigel
Gordon.

This announcement took every one a little by surprise.  A few were really gratified; the majority perceived that it silenced gossip of a very enthralling kind.  No one could now deplore or insinuate, or express sorrow or astonishment.  And, as rejoicing with one’s friends and neighbours soon becomes a very monotonous thing, Katherine Van Heemskirk’s fine marriage was tacitly dropped.  Only for that one day on which it was publicly declared, was it an absorbing topic.  The whole issue of the “Gazette” was quickly bought; and then people, having seen the fact with their own eyes, felt a sudden satiety of the whole affair.

On some few it had a more particular influence.  Hyde’s brother officers held high festival to their comrade’s success.  To every bumper they read the notice aloud, as a toast, and gave a kind of national triumph to what was a purely personal affair.  Joris read it with dim eyes, and then lit his long Gouda pipe and sat smoking with an air of inexpressible loneliness.  Lysbet read it, and then put the paper carefully away among the silks and satins in her bottom drawer.  Joanna read it, and then immediately bought a dozen copies and sent them to the relatives of Batavius, in Dordrecht, Holland.

Neil Sample read and re-read it.  It seemed to have a fascination for him; and for more than an hour he sat musing, with his eyes fixed upon the fateful words.  Then he rose and went to the hearth.  There were a few sticks of wood burning upon it, but they had fallen apart.  He put them together, and, tearing out the notice, he laid it upon them.  It meant much more to Neil than the destruction of a scrap of paper, and he stood watching it, long after it had become a film of grayish ash.

Bram would not read it at all.  He was too full of shame and trouble at the event; and the moments went as if they moved on lead.  But the unhappy day wore away to its evening; and after tea he gathered a great nosegay of narcissus, and went to Isaac Cohen’s.  He did not “hang about the steps,” as Joris in his temper had said.  Miriam was not one of those girls who sit in the door to be gazed at by every passing man.  He went into the store, and she seemed to know his footstep.  He had no need to speak:  she came at once from the mystery behind the crowded place into the clearer light.  Plain and dark were her garments, and Bram would have been unable to describe her dress; but it was as fitting to her as are the green leaves of the rose-tree to the rose.

Their acquaintance had evidently advanced since that anxious evening when she had urged upon Bram the intelligence of the duel between Hyde and Neil Semple; for Bram gave her the flowers without embarrassment, and she buried her sweet face in their sweet petals, and then lifted it with a smile at once grateful and confidential.  Then they began to talk of Katherine.

[Illustration:  Plain and dark were her garments]

“She was so beautiful and so kind,” said Miriam; “just a week since she passed here, with some violets in her hand; and, when she saw me, she ran up the steps, and said, ‘I have brought them for you;’ and she clasped my fingers, and looked so pleasantly in my face.  If I had a sister, Bram, I think she would smile at me in the same way.”

“Very grateful to you was Katharine.  All you did about the duel, I told her.  She knows her husband had not been alive to-day, but for you.  O Miriam, if you had not spoken!”

“I should have had the stain of blood on my conscience.  I did right to speak.  My grandfather said to me, ‘You did quite right, my dear.’”

Then Bram told her all the little things that had grieved him, and they talked as dear companions might talk; only, beneath all the common words of daily life, there was some subtile sweetness that made their voices low and their glances shy and tremulous.

It was not more than an hour ere Cohen came home.  He looked quickly at the young people, and then stood by Bram, and began to talk courteously of passing events.  Miriam leaned, listening, against a magnificent “apostle’s cabinet” in black oak—­one of those famous ones made in Nuremburg in the fifteenth century, with locks and hinges of hammered-steel work, and finely chased handles of the same material.  Against its carved and pillared background her dark drapery fell in almost unnoticed grace; but her fair face and small hands, with the mass of white narcissus in them, had a singular and alluring beauty.  She affected Bram as something sweetly supernatural might have done.  It was an effort for him to answer Cohen; he felt as if it would be impossible for him to go away.

But the clock struck the hour, and the shop boy began to put up the shutters; and the old man walked to the door, taking Bram with him.  Then Miriam, smiling her farewell, passed like a shadow into the darker shadows beyond; and Bram went home, wondering to find that she had cast out of his heart hatred, malice, fretful worry, and all uncharitableness.  How could he blend them with thoughts of her? and how could he forget the slim, dark-robed figure, or the lovely face against the old black kas, crowned with its twelve sombre figures, or the white slender hands holding the white fragrant flowers?

[Illustration:  Tail-piece]

[Illustration:  Chapter heading]