The Maid of Maiden Lane

THIS IS THE WAY OF LOVE

Cornelia lingered in the garden, because she had suddenly, and as yet unconsciously, entered into that tender mystery, so common and so sovereign, which we call Love.  In Hyde’s presence she had been suffused with a bewildering, profound emotion, which had fallen on her as the gentle showers fall, to make the flowers of spring.  A shy happiness, a trembling delightful feeling never known before, filled her heart.  This handsome youth, whom she had only seen twice, and in the most formal manner, affected her as no other mortal had ever done.  She was a little afraid; something, she knew not what, of mystery and danger and delight, was between them; and she did not feel that she could speak of it.  It seemed, indeed, as if she would need a special language to do so.

“I have met him but twice,” she thought; “and it is as if I had a new, strange, exquisite life.  Ought I tell my mother?  But how can I?  I have no words to explain—­I do not understand—­I thought it would break my heart to leave the good Sisters and my studies, and the days so calm and holy; and now—­I do not even wish to go back.  Sister Langaard told me it would be so if I let the world come into my soul—­Alas! if I should be growing wicked!”

The thought made her start; she hastened her steps towards the large entrance door, and as she approached it a negro in a fine livery of blue and white threw the door wide open for her.  Answering his bow with a kind word, she turned quickly out of the hall, into a parlour full of sunshine.  A lady sat there hemstitching a damask napkin; a lady of dainty plainness, with a face full of graven experiences and mellowed character.  Purity was the first, and the last, impression she gave.  And when her eyes were dropped this idea was emphasized by their beautiful lids; for nowhere is the flesh so divine as in the eyelids.  And Ava Moran’s eyelids were full of holy secrets; they gave the impression of a spiritual background which was not seen, but which could be felt.  As Cornelia entered she looked up with a smile, and said, as she slightly raised her work, “it is the last of the dozen, Cornelia.”

“You make me ashamed of my idleness, mother.  Have I been a long time away?”

“Longer than was unnecessary, I think.”

“I went to Embree’s for the linen thread, and he had just opened some English gauzes and lute-strings.  Mrs. Willets was choosing a piece for a new gown, for she is to dine with the President next week, and she was so polite as to ask my opinion about the goods.  Afterwards, I walked to Wall Street with her; and coming back I met, on Broadway, Lieutenant Hyde—­and he gave me these flowers—­they came from Prince’s nursery gardens—­and, then, he walked home with me.  Was it wrong?  I mean was it polite—­I mean the proper thing to permit?  I knew not how to prevent it.”

“How often have you met Lieutenant Hyde?”

“I met him for the first time last night.  He was at the Sylvesters’, and I danced three times with him.”

“That was too often.”

“He talked with father, and father did not oppose my dancing.”

“Your father thinks of nothing, now, but the Capital question.  I dare say, after he had asked Lieutenant Hyde how he felt on that subject he never thought of the young man again.  And pray what did Lieutenant Hyde say to you this afternoon?”

“He gave me the flowers, and he told me about a beautiful opera, of which I have never before heard.  It is called Figaro.  He says, in Europe, nothing is played, or sung, or whistled, but—­Figaro; that nobody goes to any opera but—­Figaro; and that I do not know the most charming music in the world if I do not know—­Figaro.  He asked permission to bring me some of the airs to-night, and I said some civilities.  I think they meant ‘Yes.’  Did I do wrong, mother?”

“I will say ‘no,’ my dear; as you have given the invitation.  But to prevent an appearance of too exclusive intimacy, write to Arenta, and ask her and Rem to take tea with us.  Balthazar will carry the note at once.”

“Mother, Arenta has bought a blue lute string.  Shall I not also have a new gown?  The gauzes are very sweet and genteel, and I think Mrs. Jay will not forget to ask me to her dance next week.  Mr. Jefferson is sure to be there, and I wish to walk a minuet with him.”

“Your father does not approve of Mr. Jefferson.  He has not spoken to him since his return from France.  He goes too far—­in his words.”

“But all the ladies of distinction are proud to be seen in his company; and pray what is there against him?”

“Only his politics, Cornelia.  I think New York has gone mad on that subject.  Madame Barens will not speak to her son, because he is a Federalist; and Madame Lefferts will not speak to her son, because he is not a Federalist.  Mr. Jefferson, also, is thought to favour Philadelphia for the capital; and your father is as hot on this subject as he was on the Constitution.  My dear, you will find that society is torn in two by politics.”

“But women have nothing to do with politics.”

“They have everything to do with politics.  They always have had.  You are not now in a Moravian school, Cornelia; and Bethlehem is not New York.  The two places look at life from different standpoints.”

“Then, as I am to live in New York, why was I sent to Bethlehem?”

“You were sent to Bethlehem to learn how to live in New York,—­or in any other place.  Where have you seen Mr. Jefferson?”

“I saw him this afternoon, in Cedar Street.  He wore his red coat and breeches; and it was then I formed the audacious intention of dancing with him.  I told Mrs. Willets of it; and she said, ’Mr. Jefferson carried the Declaration on his shoulders, and would not dare to bow;’ and then with such a queer little laugh she asked me ’if his red breeches did not make me think of the guillotine?’ I do not think Mrs. Willets likes Mr. Jefferson very much; but, all the same, I wish to dance once with him.  I think it will be something to talk about when I am an old woman.”

“My dear one, that is so far off.  Go now, and write to Arenta.  Young Mr. Hyde and Figaro will doubtless bring her here.”

“I hope so; for Arenta has an agreeableness that fits every occasion.”  She had been folding up, with deliberate neatness, the strings of her bonnet, as she talked, and she rose with these words and went out of the parlour; but she went slowly, with a kind of hesitation, as if something had been left unsaid.

About six o’clock Arenta Van Ariens made a personal response to her friend’s message.  She was all excitement and expectation.  “What a delightful surprise!” she cried.  “To-day has been a day to be praised.  It has ticked itself away to wonders and astonishments.  Who do you think called on me this afternoon?”

“Tell me plainly, Arenta.  I never could guess for an answer.”

“No less a person than Madame Kippon.  Gertrude Kippon is going to be married!  She is going to marry a French count!  And madame is beside herself with the great alliance.”

“I heard my father say that Madame Kippon had ‘the French disease’ in a dangerous form.”

“Indeed, that is certain.  She has put the Sabbath day out of her calendar; and her daughter’s marriage is to be a legal one only.  I wonder what good Dr. Kunz will say to that!  As for me, I lost all patience with madame’s rigmarole of philosophies—­for I am not inclined to philosophy—­and indeed I had some difficulty to keep my temper; you know that it is occasionally quite unmanageable.”

Cornelia smiled understandingly, and answered with a smile, “I hope, however, that you did not put her to death, Arenta.”

“I have, at least, buried her, as far as I am concerned.  And my father says I am not to go to the marriage; that I am not even to drink a cup of tea with her again.  If my father had been at home—­or even Rem—­she would not have left our house with all her colours flying; but I am good-natured, I have no tongue worth speaking of.”

“Come, come, Arenta!  I shall be indeed astonished if you did not say one or two provoking words.”

“I said only three, Cornelia.  When madame finally declared—­’she really must go home,’ I did answer, as sweetly as possible, ’Thank you, madame!’ That was something I could say with becoming politeness.”

Cornelia was tying the scarlet ribbon which held back her flowing hair, but she turned and looked at Arenta, and asked, “Did madame boast any afterwards?”

“No; she went away very modestly, and I was not sorry to see the angry surprise on her face.  Gertrude Kippon a countess!  Only imagine it!  Well, then, I have no doubt the Frenchman will make of Gertrude—­whatever can be made of her.”

“Our drawing-rooms, and even our streets, are full of titles,” said Cornelia; “I think it is a distinction to be plain master and mistress.”

“That is the truth; even this handsome dandy, Joris Hyde, is a lieutenant.”

“He was in the field two years.  He told me so this afternoon.  I dare say, he has earned his title, even if he is a lieutenant.”

“Don’t be so highty-tighty, Cornelia.  I have no objections to military titles.  They mean something; for they at least imply, that a man is willing to fight if his country will find him a quarrel to fight in.  In fact, I rather lean to official titles of every kind.”

“I have not thought of them at all.”

“But I have.  They affect me like the feathers in a cock’s tail; of course the bird would be as good without them, but fancy him!” and Arenta laughed mirthfully at her supposition.  “As for women,” she continued, “lady, or countess, or Marquise, what an air it gives!  It finishes a woman like a lace ruff round her neck.  Every woman ought to have a title—­I mean every woman of respectability.  I have a fancy to be a marquise, and Aunt Jacobus says I look Frenchy enough.  I have heard that there is a title in the Hyde family.  I must ask Aunt Jacobus.  She knows everything about everybody.  Lieutenant Hyde!  I do wonder what he is coming for!”

The words dropped slowly, one by one, from her lips; and with a kind of fateful import; but neither of the girls divined the significance of the inquiry.  Both were too intent on those last little touches to the toilet, which make its effectiveness, to take into consideration reflections without form; and probably, at that time, without personal intention.

Then Arenta, having arranged her ringlets, tied her sash, and her sandals, began to talk of her own affairs; for she was a young lady who found it impossible to be sufficient for herself.  There had been trouble with the slaves in the Van Ariens’ household, and she told Cornelia every particular.  Also, she had very near had an offer of marriage from George Van Berckel; and she went into explanations about her diplomacies in avoiding it.

“Poor George!” she sighed, and then, looking up, was a trifle dismayed at the expression upon Cornelia’s face.  For Cornelia was as reticent, as Arenta was garrulous; and the girls were incomprehensible to each other in their deepest natures, though, superficially, they were much on the same plane, and really thought themselves to be distinctly sympathetic friends.

“Why do you look so strangely at me, Cornelia?” asked Arenta.  “Am I not properly dressed?”

“You are perfectly dressed, Arenta.  Women as fair as you are, know instinctively how to dress.”  And then Arenta stood up before the mirror and put her hand upon Cornelia’s shoulder, and they both looked at the reflection in it.

A very pretty reflection it was!—­a slender girl with a round, fair face, and a long, white throat, and sloping shoulders.  Her pale brown hair fell in ripples and curls around her until they touched a robe of heavenly blue, and half hid a singular necklace of large pearls:—­pearls taken from some Spanish ship and strung in old Zierikzee, and worn for centuries by the maids and dames of the house of Van Ariens.

“It is the necklace!” said Cornelia after a pause, “It is the pearl necklace, which gives you such an air of mystery and romance, and changes you from an everyday maiden into an old-time princess.”

“No doubt, it is the necklace,” answered Arenta.  “It is my Aunt Angelica’s, but she permits me to wear it.  When she was young, she called every pearl after one of her lovers; and she had a lover for every pearl.  She was near to forty years old when she married; and she had many lovers, even then.”

“It would have been better if she had married before she was near to forty years old—­that is, if she had taken a good husband.”

“Perhaps that; but good husbands come not on every day in the week.  I have three beads named already—­one for George Van Berckel—­one for Fred De Lancey—­and one for Willie Nichols.  What do you think of that?”

“I think, if you copy your Aunt Angelica, you will not marry any of your lovers till you are forty years old.  Come, let us go downstairs.”

She spoke a little peremptorily—­indeed, she was in the habit, quite unconsciously of using this tone with her companion, consequently it was not noticed by her.  And it was further remarkable, that the girls did not walk down the broad stairs together, but Cornelia went first, and Arenta followed her.  There was no intention or consideration in this procedure; it was the natural expression of underlying qualities, as yet not realized.

Cornelia’s self-contained, independent nature was further revealed by the erect dignity of her carriage down the centre of the stairway, one hand slightly lifting her silk robe, the other laid against the daffodils at her breast.  Her face was happy and serene, her steps light, and without hesitation or hurry.  Arenta was a little behind her friend.  She stepped idly and irresolutely, with one hand slipping along the baluster, and the other restlessly busy with her curls, her ribbons, the lace that partially hid her bosom, and the pearls that made a moonlight radiance on her snowy throat.  At the foot of the staircase Cornelia had to wait for her, and they went into the parlour together.

Doctor Moran, Rem Van Ariens, and Lieutenant Hyde were present.  The girls had a momentary glance at the latter ere he assumed the manner he thought suitable for youth and beauty.  He was talking seriously to the Doctor and playing with an ivory paper knife as he did so, but whatever remark he was making he cut it in two, and stood up, pleased and expectant, to receive Beauty so fresh and so conspicuous.

He was handsomely dressed in a dark-blue velvet coat, silver-laced, a long white satin vest and black satin breeches.  His hair was thrown backwards and tied with the customary black ribbon, and his linen and laces were of the finest quality.  He met Cornelia as he might have met a princess; and he flashed into Arenta’s eyes a glance of admiration which turned her senses upside down, and made her feel, for a moment or two, as if she could hardly breathe.

Upon Arenta’s brother he had not produced a pleasant impression.  Without intention, he had treated young Van Ariens with that negative politeness which dashes a sensitive man and makes him resentfully conscious that he has been rendered incapable of doing himself justice.  And Rem could neither define the sense of humiliation he felt, nor yet ruffle the courteous urbanity of Hyde; though he tried in various ways to introduce some conversation which would afford him the pleasure of contradiction.  Equally he failed to consider that his barely veiled antagonism compelled from the Doctor, and even from Cornelia and Arenta, attentions he might not otherwise have received.  The Doctor was indeed much annoyed that Rem did not better respect the position of guest; while Mrs. Moran was keenly sensitive to the false note in the evening’s harmony, and anxious to atone for it by many little extra courtesies.  So Hyde easily became the hero of the hour; he was permitted to teach the girls the charming old-world step of the Pas de Quatre, and afterwards to sing with them merry airs from Figaro, and sentimental airs from Lodoiska, and to make Rem’s heart burn with anger at the expression he threw into the famous ballad “My Heart and Lute” which the trio sang twice over with great feeling.

Fortunately, some of Doctor Moran’s neighbours called early in the evening.  Then whist parties were formed; and while the tables were being arranged Cornelia found an opportunity to reason with Rem.  “I never could have believed you would behave so unlike yourself,” she said; and Rem answered bluntly—­“That Englishman has insulted me ever since he came into the room.”

“He is not an Englishman,” said Cornelia.

“His father is an Englishman, and the man himself was born in England.  The way he looks at me, the way he speaks to me, is insulting.”

“I have seen nothing but courtesy to you, Rem.”

“You have not the key to his impertinences.  To-morrow, I will tell you something about Lieutenant Hyde.”

“I shall not permit you to talk evil of him.  I have no wish to hear ill reports about my acquaintances, Their behaviour is their own affair; at any rate, it is not mine.  Be good-tempered, Rem; you are to be my partner, and we must win in every game.”

But though Cornelia was all sweetness and graciousness; though Rem played well, and Lieutenant Hyde played badly; though Rem had the satisfaction of watching Hyde depart in his chair, while he stood with a confident friendship by Cornelia’s side, he was not satisfied.  There was an air of weariness and constraint in the room, and the little stir of departing visitors did not hide it.  Doctor Moran had been at an unusual social tension; he was tired, and not pleased at Rem for keeping him on the watch.  Cornelia was silent.  Rem then approached his sister and said, “it is time to go home.”  Arenta looked at her friend; she expected to be asked to remain, and she was offended when Cornelia did not give her the invitation.

On the contrary, Cornelia went with her for her cloak and bonnet, and said not a word as they trod the long stairway but “Oh dear!  How warm the evening is!”

“I expected you would ask me to stay with you, Cornelia.”  Arenta was tying her bonnet strings as she made this remark, and her fingers trembled, and her voice was full of hurt feeling.

“Rem behaved so badly, Arenta.”

“I think that is not so.  Did I also behave badly?”

“You were charming every moment of the evening; but Rem was on the point of quarrelling with Lieutenant Hyde.  You must have seen it.  In my father’s house, this was not proper.”

“I never saw Rem behave badly in my life.  Suppose he does quarrel with that dandy Englishman, Rem would not get the worst of it.  I have no fear for my brother Rem!  No, indeed!”

“Bulk does not stand for much in a sword game.”

“Do you mean they might fight a duel?”

“I think it is best for you to go home with Rem.  Otherwise, he might, in his present temper, find himself near Becker’s; and if a man is quarrelsome he may always get principals and seconds there.  You have told me this yourself.  In the morning Rem will, I hope, be reasonable.”

“I thought you and I would talk things over to-night.  I like to talk over a new pleasure.”

“Dear Arenta, we shall have so much more time, to-morrow.  Come to-morrow.”

But Arenta was not pleased.  She left her friend with an air of repressed injury, and afterwards made little remarks about Cornelia to her brother, which exactly fitted his sense of wounded pride.  Indeed, they stood a few minutes in the Van Ariens’ parlour to exchange their opinions still further—­

“I think Cornelia was jealous of me, Rem.  That, in plain Dutch, is what it all means.  Does she imagine that I desire the attentions of a man who is neither an American nor a Dutchman?  I do not.  I speak the truth always, for I love the truth.”

“Cornelia does desire them; I think that—­and it makes me wretched.”

“Oh, indeed, it is plain to see that she has fallen in love with that black-eyed man of many songs and dances.  Well, then, we must admit that he danced to perfection.  One may dislike the creature, and yet tell the truth.”

“Do you truly believe that Cornelia is in love with him?”

“Rem, there are things a woman observes.  Cornelia is changed to-night.  She did not wish me to stay and talk about this man Hyde—­she preferred thinking about him—­such reveries are suspicious.  I have felt the symptom.  But, however, I may be wrong.  Perhaps Cornelia was angry at Hyde, and anxious about you—­Do you think that?”

Rem would not admit any such explanation; and, indeed, Arenta only made such suppositions to render more poignant those entirely contrary.

“Ever since she was a little girl, twelve, eleven years old, I have loved her,” said Rem; “and she knows it.”

“She knows it; that is so.  When I was at Bethlehem, I read her all your letters; and many a time you spoke in them of her as your ‘little wife.’  To be sure, it was a joke; but she understood that you, at least, put your heart in it.  Girls do not need to have such things explained.  Come, come, we must go to our rooms; for that is our father I hear moving about.  In a few minutes he will be angry, and then—­”

She did not finish the sentence; there was no necessity; Rem knew what unpleasantness the threat implied, and he slipped off his shoes and stole quietly upstairs.  Arenta was not disinclined to a few words if her father wished them; so she did not hurry, though the great Flemish clock on the stair-landing chimed eleven as she entered her room.  It was an extraordinarily late hour, but she only smiled, as she struck her pretty fore-fingers together in time with it.  She was not disposed to curtail the day; it was her method, always, to take the full flavour of every event that was not disagreeable.

“And, after all,” she mused, “the evening was a possibility.  It was a door on the latch—­I may push it open and go in—­who can tell?  I saw how amazed he was at my beauty when I first entered the parlour—­and he is but a man—­and a young man who likes his own way—­so much is evident.”  She was meanwhile unclasping her pearl necklace, and at this point she held it in her hands taking the fourth bead between her fingers, and smiled speculatively.

Then she heard her brother moving about the floor of the room above her, and a shadow darkened her face.  She had strong family affections, and she was angry that Rem should be troubled by any man or woman, living: 

“I have always thought Cornelia a very saint,” she muttered; “but Love is the great revealer.  I wonder if she is in love—­to tell the truth, she was past finding out.  I cannot say that I saw the least sign of it—­ and between me and myself, Rem was unreasonable; however, I am not pleased that Rem felt himself to be badly used.”

It was to this touch of resentment in her drifting thoughts that she performed her last duties.  She did not hurry them.  “Very soon there will be the noise of chairmen and carriages to disturb me,” she thought; “and I may as well think a little, and put my things away.”

So she folded each dainty blue morocco slipper in its separate piece of fine paper, and straightened out her ribbons, and wrapped her pale blue robe in its holland covering, and put every comb and pin in its proper place, all the time treading as softly as a mouse.  And by and by the street was dark and still, and her room in the most perfect order.  These things gave her the comfort of a good conscience; and she said her prayers, and fell calmly asleep, to the flattering thought, “I would not much wonder if, at this moment, Lieutenant Hyde is thinking about me.”

In reality, Lieutenant Hyde was at that moment in the Belvedere Club, singing the Marseillaise, and listening to a very inflammatory speech from the French Minister.  But a couple of hours later, Arenta’s “wonder” would have touched the truth.  He was then alone, and very ill satisfied; for, after some restless reflections, he said impatiently—­

“I have again made a fool of myself.  I have now all kinds of unpleasant feelings; and when I left that good Doctor’s house I was well satisfied.  His daughter is an angel.  I praise myself for finding that out.  She made me believe in all goodness; yes, even in patriotism!  I, that have seen it sold a dozen times!  Oh, how divinely shy and proud she is!  I could not get her one step beyond the first civilities; even my eyes failed me to-night—­her calm glances killed their fire—­and she barely touched my hand, though I offered it with a respectful ardour, she must have understood:”—­then he looked admiringly at the long, white hand and thoroughbred wrist which lay idly on the velvet cushion of his armchair; an exquisite ruffle of lace just touched it, and his eyes wandered from the ruffle to the velvet and silver embroidery of his coat; and the delicate laced lawn of his cravat.

“I have the reputation of beauty,” he continued; “and I am perfectly dressed, and yet—­yet—­this little Beauty seemed unconscious of my advantages.  But I cannot accept failure in this case.  The girl is unparagoned.  I am in love with her; sincerely in love.  She fills my thoughts, and has done so, ever since I first saw her.  It is a pure delight to think of her.”

Then he rose, threw off his velvet and lace, and designedly let his thoughts turn to Arenta.  “She is pretty beyond all prettiness,” he said softly as he moved about, “She dances well, talks from hand to mouth, and she gave me one sweet glance; and I think if she has gone so far—­ she might go further.”  At this reflection he smiled again, and lifting a decanter slowly poured into a goblet some amber-coloured sherry; saying—­

“I dare not yet drink to the unapproachable Cornelia; but I may at least pour the wine to the blue-eyed goddess, with the pearl necklace, and the golden hair;” and as he lifted the glass, a memory from some past mirthful hour came into his remembrance; and he began to hum a strain of the song it brought to his mind—­

“Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass
I’ll warrant, she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.”

It was remarkable that he did not take Arenta’s brother into his speculations at all, and yet Rem Van Ariens was at that very hour chafing restlessly and sleeplessly under insults he conceived himself to have received, in such fashion and under such circumstances as made reprisal impossible.  In reality, however, Van Ariens had not been intentionally wounded by Hyde.  The situation was the natural result of incipient jealousy and sensitive pride on Rem’s part; and of that calm indifference and complaisance on Hyde’s part, which appeared tacitly to assert its own superiority and expect its recognition as a matter of course.  Indeed, at their introduction, Rem had affected Hyde rather pleasantly; and when the young Dutch gentleman’s opposition became evident, Hyde had simply ignored it.  For as yet the thought of Rem as a rival had not entered his mind.

But this is the way of Love; its filmiest threads easily spin themselves further; and a man once entangled is bound by that unseen chain which links the soul to its destiny.