The Bow of Orange Ribbon: A Romance of New York

“Each man’s homestead is his golden milestone,
Is the central point from which he measures
Every distance
Through the gateways of the world around him.”

There are certain months in every life which seem to be full of fate, good or evil, for that life; and May was Katherine Hyde’s luck month.  It was on a May afternoon that Hyde had asked her love; it was on a May night she fled with him through the gray shadows of the misty river.  Since then a year had gone by, and it was May once more,—­an English May, full of the magic of the month; clear skies, and young foliage, and birds’ songs, the cool, woody smell of wall-flowers, and the ethereal perfume of lilies.

In Hyde Manor House, there was that stir of preparation which indicates a departure.  The house was before time; it had the air of early rising; the atmosphere of yesterday had not been dismissed, but lingered around, and gave the idea of haste and change, and departure from regular custom.  It was, indeed, an hour before the usual breakfast-time; but Hyde and Katharine were taking a hasty meal together.  Hyde was in full uniform, his sword at his side, his cavalry cap and cloak on a chair near him; and up and down the gravelled walk before the main entrance a groom was leading his horse.

“I must see what is the matter with Mephisto,” said Hyde.  “How he is snorting and pawing!  And if Park loses control of him, I shall be greatly inconvenienced for both horse and time.”

The remark was partially the excuse of a man who feels that he must go, and who tries to say the hard words in less ominous form.  They both rose together,—­Katherine bravely smiling away tears, and looking exceedingly lovely in her blue morning-gown trimmed with frillings of thread lace; and Hyde, gallant and tender, but still with the air of a man not averse to go back to life’s real duty.  He took Katherine in his arms, kissed away her tears, made her many a loving promise, and then, lifting his cap and cloak, left the room.  The servants were lingering around to get his last word, and to wish him “God-speed;” and for a few minutes he stood talking to his groom and soothing Mephisto.  Evidently he had quite recovered his health and strength; for he sprang very easily into the saddle, and, gathering the reins in his hand, kept the restive animal in perfect control.

A moment he stood thus, the very ideal of a fearless, chivalrous, handsome soldier; the next, his face softened to almost womanly tenderness, for he saw Katherine coming hastily through the dim hall and into the clear sunshine, and in her arms was his little son.  She came fearlessly to his side, and lifted the sleeping child to him.  He stooped and kissed it, and then kissed again the beautiful mother; and calling happily backward, “Good-by, my love; God keep you, love; good-by!” he gave Mephisto his own wild will, and was soon lost to sight among the trees of the park.

[Illustration:  Katherine stood with her child in her arms]

Katherine stood with her child in her arms, listening to the ever faint and fainter beat of Mephisto’s hoofs.  Her husband had gone back to duty, his furlough had expired, and their long, and leisurely honeymoon was over.  But she was neither fearful nor unhappy.  Hyde’s friends had procured his exchange into a court regiment.  He was only going to London, and he was still her lover.  She looked forward with clear eyes as she said gratefully over to herself, “So happy am I!  So good is my husband!  So dear is my child!  So fair and sweet is my home!”

And though to many minds Hyde Manor might seem neither fair nor sweet, Katherine really liked it.  Perhaps she had some inherited taste for low lands, with their shimmer of water and patches of green; or perhaps the gentle beauty of the landscape specially fitted her temperament.  But, at any rate, the wide brown stretches, dotted with lonely windmills and low farmhouses, pleased her.  So also did the marshes, fringed with yellow and purple flags; and the great ditches, white with water-lilies; and the high belts of natural turf; and the summer sunshine, which over this level land had a white brilliancy to which other sunshine seemed shadow.  Hyde had never before found the country endurable, except during the season when the marshes were full of birds; or when, at the Christmas holidays, the ice was firm as marble and smooth as glass, and the wind blowing fair from behind.  Then he had liked well a race with the famous fen-skaters.

The Manor House was neither handsome nor picturesque, though its dark-red bricks made telling contrasts among the ivy and the few large trees surrounding it.  It contained a great number of rooms, but none were of large proportions.  The ceilings were low, and often crossed with heavy oak beams; while the floors, though of polished oak, were very uneven.  Hyde had refurnished a few of the rooms; and the showy paperings and chintzes, the fine satin and gilding, looked oddly at variance with the black oak wainscots, the Elizabethan fireplaces, and the other internal decorations.

Katherine, however, had no sense of any incongruity.  She was charmed with her home, from its big garrets to the great wine-bins in its underground cellars; and while Hyde wandered about the fens with his fishing-rod or gun, or went into the little town of Hyde to meet over a market dinner the neighbouring squires, she was busy arranging every room with that scrupulous nicety and cleanliness which had been not only an important part of her education, but was also a fundamental trait of her character.  Indeed, no Dutch wife ever had the netheid, or passion for order and cleanliness, in greater perfection than Katherine.  She might almost have come from Wormeldingen, “where the homes are washed and waxed, and the streets brushed and dusted till not a straw lies about, and the trees have a combed and brushed appearance, and do not dare to grow a leaf out of its place.”  So, then, the putting in order of this large house, with all its miscellaneous, uncared-for furniture, gave her a genuine pleasure.

Always pretty and sweet as a flower, always beautifully dressed, she yet directed, personally, her little force of servants, until room after room became a thing of beauty.  It was her employment during those days on which Hyde was fishing or shooting; and it was not until the whole house was in exquisite condition that Katherine took him through his renovated dwelling.  He was delighted, and not too selfish and indifferent to express his wonder and pleasure.

“Faith, Kate,” he said, “you have made me a home out of an old lumber-house!  I thought of taking you to London with me; but, upon my word, we had better stay at Hyde and beautify the place.  I can run down whenever it is possible to get a few days off.”

This idea gained gradually on both, and articles of luxury and adornment were occasionally added to the better rooms.  The garden next fell under Katharine’s care.  “In sweet neglect,” it no longer flaunted its beauties.  Roses and stocks and tiger-lilies learned what boundaries of box meant; and if flowers have any sense of territorial rights, Katherine’s must have found they were respected.  Encroaching vines were securely confined within their proper limits, and grass that wandered into the gravel paths sought for itself a merciless destruction.

[Illustration:  The garden next fell under Katherine’s care]

All such reforms, if they are not offensive, are stimulating and progressive.  The stables, kennels, and park, as well as the land belonging to the manor, became of sudden interest to Hyde.  He surprised his lawyer by asking after it, and by giving orders that in future the hay cut in the meadows should be cut for the Hyde stables.  Every small wrong which he investigated and redressed increased his sense of responsibility; and the birth of his son made him begin to plan for the future in a way which brought not only great pleasure to Katherine, but also a comfortable self-satisfaction to his own heart.

Yet, even with all these favourable conditions, Katherine would not have been happy had the estrangement between herself and her parents continued a bitter or a silent one.  She did not suppose they would answer the letter she had sent by the fisherman Hudde; she was prepared to ask, and to wait, for pardon and for a re-gift of that precious love which she had apparently slighted for a newer and as yet untested one.  So, immediately after her arrival at Jamaica, Katherine wrote to her mother; and, without waiting for replies, she continued her letters regularly from Hyde.  They were in a spirit of the sweetest and frankest confidence.  She made her familiar with all her household plans and wifely cares; as room by room in the old manor was finished, she described it.  She asked her advice with all the faith of a child and the love of a daughter; and she sent through her those sweet messages of affection to her father which she feared a little to offer without her mother’s mediation.

But when she had a son, and when Hyde agreed that the boy should be named George, she wrote a letter to him.  Joris found it one April morning on his desk, and it happened to come in a happy hour.  He had been working in his garden, and every plant and flower had brought his Katherine pleasantly back to his memory.  All the walks were haunted by her image.  The fresh breeze of the river was full of her voice and her clear laughter.  The returning birds, chattering in the trees above him, seemed to ask, “Where, then, is the little one gone?”

Her letter, full of love, starred all through with pet words, and wisely reminding him more of their own past happiness than enlarging on her present joy, made his heart melt.  He could do no business that day.  He felt that he must go home and tell Lysbet:  only the mother could fully understand and share his joy.  He found her cleaning the “Guilderland cup”—­the very cup Mrs. Gordon had found Katherine cleaning when she brought the first love message, and took back that fateful token, her bow of orange ribbon.  At that moment Lysbet’s thoughts were entirely with Katherine.  She was wondering whether Joris and herself might not some day cross the ocean to see their child.  When she heard her husband’s step at that early hour, she put down the cup in fear, and stood watching the door for his approach.  The first glimpse of his face told her that he was no messenger of sorrow.  He gave her the letter with a smile, and then walked up and down while she read it.

“Well, Joris, a beautiful letter this is.  And thou has a grandson of thy own name—­a little Joris.  Oh, how I long to see him!  I hope that he will grow like thee—­so big and handsome as thou art, and also with thy good heart.  Oh, the little Joris!  Would God he was here!”

The face of Joris was happy, and his eyes shining; but he had not yet much to say.  He walked about for an hour, and listened to Lysbet, who, as she polished her silver, retold him all that Katherine had said of her husband’s love, and of his goodness to her.  With great attention he listened to her description of the renovated house and garden, and of Hyde’s purposes with regard to the estate.  Then he sat down and smoked his pipe, and after dinner he returned to his pipe and his meditation.  Lysbet wondered what he was considering, and hoped that it might be a letter of full forgiveness for her beloved Katherine.

At last he rose and went into the garden; and she watched him wander from bed to bed, and stand looking down at the green shoots of the early flowers, and the lovely inverted urns of the brave snowdrops.  To the river and back again several times he walked; but about three o’clock he came into the house with a firm, quick step, and, not finding Lysbet in the sitting-room, called her cheerily.  She was in their room upstairs, and he went to her.

“Lysbet, thinking I have been—­thinking of Katherine’s marriage.  Better than I expected, it has turned out.”

“I think that Katherine has made a good marriage—­the best marriage of all the children.”

[Illustration:  “Thou has a grandson of thy own name”]

“Dost thou believe that her husband is so kind and so prudent as she says?”

“No doubt of it I have.”

“See, then:  I will send to Katherine her portion.  Cohen will give me the order on Secor’s Bank in Threadneedle Street.  It is for her and her children.  Can I trust them with it?”

“Katherine is no waster, and full of nobleness is her husband.  Write thou to him, and put it in his charge for Katherine and her children.  And tell him in his honour thou trust entirely; and I think that he will do in all things right.  Nothing has he asked of thee.”

“To the devil he sent my dirty guilders, made in dirty trade.  I have not forgot.”

“Joris, the Devil speaks for a man in a passion.  Keep no such words in thy memory.”

“Lysbet?”

“What then, Joris?”

“The drinking-cup of silver, which my father gave us at our marriage,—­the great silver one that has on it the view of Middleburg and the arms of the city.  It was given to my great-grandfather when he was mayor of Middleburg.  His name, also, was Joris.  To my grandson shall I send it?”

“Oh, my Joris, much pleasure would thou give Katherine and me also!  Let the little fellow have it.  Earl of Dorset and Hyde he may be yet.”

Joris blushed vividly, but he answered, “Mayor of New York he may be yet.  That will please me best.”

“Five grandsons hast thou, but this is the first Joris.  Anna has two sons, but for his dead brothers Rysbaack named them.  Cornelia has two sons; but for thee they called neither, because Van Dorn’s father is called Joris, and with him they are great unfriends.  And when Joanna’s son was born, they called him Peter, because Batavius hath a rich uncle called Peter, who may pay for the name.  So, then, Katherine’s son is the first of thy grandchildren that has thy name.  The dear little Joris!  He has blue eyes too; eyes like thine, she says.  Yes, I would to him give the Middleburg cup.  William Newman, the jeweller, will pack it safely, and by the next ship thou can send it to the bankers thou spoke of.  I will tell Katherine so.  But thou, too, write her a letter; for little she will think of her fortune or of the cup, if thy love thou send not with them.”

And Joris had done all that he purposed, and done it without one grudging thought or doubting word.  The cup went, full of good-will.  The money was given as Katherine’s right, and was hampered with no restrictions but the wishes of Joris, left to the honour of Hyde.  And Hyde was not indifferent to such noble trust.  He fully determined to deserve it.  As for Katherine, she desired no greater pleasure than to emphasize her reliance in her husband by leaving the money absolutely at his discretion.  In fact, she felt a far greater interest in the Middleburg cup.  It had always been an object of her admiration and desire.  She believed her son would be proud to point it out and say, “It came from my mother’s ancestor, who was mayor of Middleburg when that famous city ruled in the East India trade, and compelled all vessels with spice and wines and oils to come to the crane of Middleburg, there to be verified and gauged.”  She longed to receive this gift.  She had resolved to put it between the baby fingers of little Joris as soon as it arrived.  “A grand christening-cup it will be,” she exclaimed, with childlike enthusiasm and Hyde kissed her, and promised to send it at once by a trusty messenger.

[Illustration:  Plate old and new]

He was a little amused by her enthusiasm.  The Hydes had much plate, old and new, and they were proud of its beauty and excellence, and well aware of its worth; but they were not able to judge of the value of flagons and cups and servers gathered slowly through many generations, every one representing some human drama of love or suffering, or some deed of national significance.  Nearly all of Joris Van Heemskirk’s silver was “storied:”  it was the materialization of honour and patriotism, of self-denial or charity; and the silversmith’s and engraver’s work was the least part of the Van Heemskirk pride in it.

As Joris sat smoking that night, he thought over his proposal; and then for the first time it struck him that the Middleburg cup might have a peculiar significance and value to Bram.  It cost him an effort to put his vague suspicions into words, because by doing so he seemed to give shape and substance to shadows; but when Lysbet sat down with a little sigh of content beside him, and said, “A happy night is this to us, Joris,” he answered, “God is good; always better to us than we trust Him for.  I want to say now what I have been considering the last hour,—­some other cup we will send to the little Joris, for I think Bram will like to have the Middleburg cup best of all.”

“Always Bram has been promised the Guilderland cup and the server that goes with it.”

“That is the truth; but I will tell you something, Lysbet.  The Middelburg cup was given by the Jews of Middleburg to my ancestor because great favours and protection he gave them when he was mayor of the city.  Bram is very often with Miriam Cohen, and”—­

Then Joris stopped, and Lysbet waited anxiously for him to finish the sentence; but he only puffed, puffed, and looked thoughtfully at the bowl of his pipe.

“What mean you, Joris?”

“I think that he loves her.”

“Well?”

“That he would like to marry her.”

“Many things that are impossible, man would like to do:  that is most impossible of all.”

“You think so?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Not impossible was it for Katherine to marry one not of her own race.”

“In my mind it is not race so much as faith.  Far more than race, faith claims.”

“Hyde is a Lutheran.”

“A Lutheran may also be a Christian, I hope, Joris.”

“I judge no man, Lysbet.  I have known Jews that were better Christians than some baptized in the name of Christ and John Calvin,—­Jews who, like the great Jew, loved God, and did to their fellow-creatures as they wished to be done by.  And if you had ever seen Miriam Cohen, you would not make a wonder that Bram loves her.”

“Is she so fair?”

“A beautiful face and gracious ways she has.  Like her the beloved Rachel must have been, I think.  Why do you not stand with Bram as you stood with Katherine?”

“Little use it would be, Joris.  To give consent in this matter would be a sacrifice refused.  Be sure that Cohen will not listen to Bram; no, nor to you, nor to me, nor to Miriam.  If it come to a question of race, more proud is the Jew of his race then even the Englishman or the Dutchman.  If it come to a question of faith, if all the other faiths in the world die out, the Jew will hold to his own.  Say to Bram, ‘I am willing;’ and Cohen will say to him, ‘Never, never will I consent.’  If you keep the ‘Jew’s cup’ for Bram and Miriam, always you will keep it; yes, and they that live after you, too.”

Why it is that certain trains of thought and feeling move to their end at the same hour, though that end affect a variety of persons, no one has yet explained.  But there are undoubtedly currents of sympathy of whose nature and movements we are profoundly ignorant.  Thus how often we think of an event just before some decisive action relating to it is made known to us!  How often do we recall some friend just as we are about to see or hear from him!  How often do we remember something that ought to be done, just at the last moment its successful accomplishment was possible to us!

And at the very hour Joris and Lysbet were discussing the position of their son with regard to Miriam Cohen, the question was being definitely settled at another point.  For Joris was not the only person who had observed Bram’s devotion to the beautiful Jewess.  Cohen had watched him with close and cautious jealousy for many months; but he was far too wise to stimulate love by opposition, and he did not believe in half measures.  When he defined Miriam’s duty to her, he meant it to be in such shape as precluded argument or uncertainty; and for this purpose delay was necessary.  Much correspondence with England had to take place, and the mails were then irregular.  But it happened that, after some months of negotiation, a final and satisfactory letter had come to him by the same post as brought Katherine’s letter to Joris Van Heemskirk.

He read its contents with a sad satisfaction, and then locked it away until the evening hours secured him from business interruption.  Then he went to his grandchild.  He found her sitting quietly among the cushions of a low couch.  It seemed as if Miriam’s thoughts were generally sufficient for her pleasure, for she was rarely busy.  She had always time to sit and talk, or to sit and be silent.  And Cohen liked best to see her thus,—­beautiful and calm, with small hands dropped or folded, and eyes half shut, and mouth closed, but ready to smile and dimple if he decided to speak to her.

She looked so pretty and happy and careless that for some time he did not like to break the spell of her restful beauty.  Nor did he until his pipe was quite finished, and he had looked carefully over the notes in his “day-book.”  Then he said in slow, even tones, “My child, listen to me.  This summer my young kinsman Judah Belasco will come here.  He comes to marry you.  You will be a happy wife, my dear.  He has moneys, and he has the power to make moneys; and he is a good young man.  I have been cautious concerning that, my dear.”

There was a long pause.  He did not hurry her, but sat patiently waiting, with his eyes fixed upon the book in his hand.

“I do not want to marry, grandfather.  I am so young.  I do not know Judah Belasco.”

“You shall have time, my dear.  It is part of the agreement that he shall now live in New York.  He is a rich young man, my dear.  He is of the sephardim, as you are too, my dear.  You must marry in your own caste; for we are of unmixed blood, faithful children of the tribe of Judah.  All of our brethren here are Ashkenasem:  therefore, I have had no rest until I got a husband fit for you, my dear.  This was my duty, though I brought him from the end of the earth.  It has cost me moneys, but I gave cheerfully.  The thing is finished now, when you are ready.  But you shall not be hurried, my dear.”

“Father, I have been a good daughter.  Do not make me leave you.”

“You have been good, and you will be good always.  What is the command?”

“Honor thy father and thy mother.”

“And the promise?”

“Then long shall be thy days on the earth.”

“And the vow you made, Miriam?”

“That I would never disobey or deceive you.”

“Who have you vowed to?”

“The God of Israel.”

“Will you lie unto Him?”

“I would give my life first.”

“Now is the time to fulfil your vow.  Put from your heart or fancy any other young man.  Have you not thought of our neighbour, Bram Van Heemskirk?”

“He is good; he is handsome.  I fear he loves me.”

“You know not anything.  If you choose a husband, or even a shoe, by their appearance, both may pinch you, my dear.  Judah is of good stock.  Of a good tree you may expect good fruit.”

“Bram Van Heemskirk is also the son of a good father.  Many times you have said it.”

“Yes, I have said it.  But Bram is not of our people.  And if our law forbid us to sow different seeds at the same time in the same ground, or to graft one kind of fruit-tree on the stock of another, shall we dare to mingle ourselves with people alien in race and faith, and speech and customs?  My dear, will you take your own way, or will you obey the word of the Lord?”

“My way cannot stand before His way.”

“It is a hard thing for you, my dear.  Your way is sweet to you.  Offer it as a sacrifice; bind the sacrifice, even with cords, to the altar, if it be necessary.  I mean, say to Bram Van Heemskirk words that you cannot unsay.  Then there will be only one sorrow.  It is hope and fear, and fear and hope, that make the heart sick.  Be kind, and slay hope at once, my dear.”

“If Judah had been my own choice, father”—­

“Choice? My dear, when did you get wisdom?  Do not parents choose for their children their food, dress, friends, and teachers?  What folly to do these things, and then leave them in the most serious question of life to their own wisdom, or want of wisdom!  Choice!  Remember Van Heemskirk’s daughter, and the sin and suffering her own choice caused.”

[Illustration:  “Make me not to remember the past”]

“I think it was not her fault if two men quarrelled and fought about her.”

“She was not wholly innocent.  Miriam, make me not to remember the past.  My eyes are old now; they should not weep any more.  I have drunk my cup of sorrow to the lees.  O Miriam, Miriam, do not fill it again!”

“God forbid!  My father, I will keep the promise that I made you.  I will do all that you wish.”

Cohen bowed his head solemnly, and remained for some minutes afterward motionless.  His eyes were closed, his face was as still as a painted face.  Whether he was praying or remembering, Miriam knew not.  But solitude is the first cry of the wounded heart, and she went away into it.  She was like a child that had been smitten, and whom there was none to comfort.  But she never thought of disputing her grandfather’s word, or of opposing his will.  Often before he had been obliged to give her some bitter cup, or some disappointment; but her good had always been the end in view.  She had perfect faith in his love and wisdom.  But she suffered very much; though she bore it with that uncomplaining patience which is so characteristic of the child heart—­a patience pathetic in its resignation, and sublime in its obedience.

And it was during this hour of trial to Miriam that Joris was talking to Lysbet of her.  It did him good to put his fears into words, for Lysbet’s assurances were comfortable; and as it had been a day full of feeling, he was weary and went earlier to his room than usual.  On the contrary, Lysbet was very wakeful.  She carried her sewing to the candle, and sat down for an hour’s work.  The house was oppressively still; and she could not help remembering the days when it had been so different,—­when Anna and Cornelia had been marriageable women, and Joanna and Katherine growing girls.  All of them had now gone away from her.  Only Bram was left, and she thought of him with great anxiety.  Such a marriage as his father had hinted at filled her with alarm.  She could neither conquer her prejudices nor put away her fears; and she tormented herself with imagining, in the event of such a misfortune, all the disagreeable and disapproving things the members of the Middle Kirk would have to say.

In the midst of her reflections, Bram returned.  She had not expected him so early, but the sound of his feet was pleasant.  He came in slowly; and, after some pottering, irritating delays, he pushed his father’s chair back from the light, and with a heavy sigh sat down in it.

“Why sigh you so heavy, Bram?  Every sigh still lower sinks the heart.”

“A light heart I shall never have again, mother.”

“You talk some foolishness.  A young man like you!  A quarrel with your sweetheart, is it?  Well, it will be over as quick as a rainy day.  Then the sunshine again.”

“For me there is no hope like that.  So quiet and shy was my love.”

“Oh, indeed!  Of all the coquettes, the quiet, shy ones are the worst.”

“No coquette is Miriam Cohen.  My love life is at the end, mother.”

“When began it, Bram?”

“It was at the time of the duel.  I loved her from the first moment.  O mother, mother!”

“Does she not love you, Bram?”

“I think so:  many sweet hours we have had together.  My heart was full of hope.”

“Her faith, Bram, should have kept you prudent.”

“‘In what church do you pray?’ Love asks not such a question, and as for her race, I thought a daughter of Israel is the beloved of all the daughters of God.  A blessing to my house she will bring.”

“That is not what the world says, Bram.  No, my son.  It is thus, and like it:  that God is angry with His people, and for that He has scattered them through all the nations of the earth.”

“Such folly is that!  To colonize, to ‘take possession’ of the whole earth, is what the men of Israel have always intended.  Long before the Christ was born in Bethlehem, the Jews were scattered throughout every known country.  I will say that to the dominie.  It is the truth, and he cannot deny it.”

“But surely God is angry with them.”

“I see it not.  If once He was angry, long ago He has forgiven His people.  ‘To the third and fourth generation’ only is His anger.  His own limit that is.  Who have such blessings?  The gold and the wine and the fruit of all lands are theirs.  Their increase comes when all others’ fail.  God is not angry with them.  The light of His smile is on the face of Miriam.  He teaches her father how to traffic and to prosper.  Do not the Holy Scriptures say that the blessing, not the anger, of the Lord maketh rich?”

“Well, then, my son, all this is little to the purpose, if she will not have thee for her husband.  But be not easy to lose thy heart.  Try once more.”

“Useless it would be.  Miriam is not one of those who say ‘no’ and then ‘yes.’”

“Nearly two years you have known her.  That was long to keep you in hope and doubt.  I think she is a coquette.”

“You know her not, mother.  Very few words of love have I dared to say.  We have been friends.  I was happy to stand in the store and talk to Cohen, and watch her.  A glance from her eyes, a pleasant word, was enough.  I feared to lose all by asking too much.”

“Then, why did you ask her to-night?  It would have been better had your father spoken first to Mr. Cohen.”

“I did not ask Miriam to-night.  She spared me all she could.  She was in the store as I passed, and I went in.  This is what she said to me, ’Bram, dear Bram, I fear that you begin to love me, because I think of you very often.  And my grandfather has just told me that I am promised to Judah Belasco, of London.  In the summer he will come here, and I shall marry him.’  I wish, mother, you could have seen her leaning against the black kas; for between it and her black dress, her face was white as death, and beautiful and pitiful as an angel’s.”

“What said you then?”

“Oh, I scarce know!  But I told her how dearly I loved her, and I asked her to be my wife.”

[Illustration:  With a great sob Bram laid his head against her breast]

“And she said what to thee?”

“’My father I must obey.  Though he told me to slay myself, I must obey him.  By the God of Israel, I have promised it often.’”

“Was that all, Bram?”

“I asked her again and again.  I said, ’Only in this one thing, Miriam, and all our lives after it we will give to him.’  But she answered, ’Obedience is better than sacrifice, Bram.  That is what our law teaches.  Though I could give my father the wealth and the power of King Solomon, it would be worth less than my obedience.’  And for all my pleading, at the last it was the same, ’I cannot do wrong; for many right deeds will not undo one wrong one.’  So she gave me her hands, and I kissed them,—­my first and last kiss,—­and I bade her farewell; for my hope is over—­I know that.”

“She is a good girl.  I wish that you had won her, Bram.”  And Lysbet put down her work and went to her son’s side; and with a great sob Bram laid his head against her breast.

“As one whom his mother comforteth!” Oh, tender and wonderful consolation!  It is the mother that turns the bitter waters of life into wine.  Bram talked his sorrow over to his mother’s love and pity and sympathy; and when she parted with him, long after the midnight, she said cheerfully, “Thou hast a brave soul, mijn zoon, mijn Bram; and this trouble is not all for thy loss and grief.  A sweet memory will this beautiful Miriam be as long as thou livest; and to have loved well a good woman will make thee always a better man for it.”

[Illustration:  Chapter heading]