The Maid of Maiden Lane

HYDE AND ARENTA

Seldom is Love ushered into any life with any pomp of circumstance or ceremony; there is no overture to our opera, no prologue to our play, and the most momentous meetings occur as if by mere accident.  A friend delayed Cornelia a while on the street; and turning, she met Hyde face to face; a moment more, or less, and the meeting had not been.  Ah, but some Power had set that moment for their meeting, and the delay had been intended, and the consequences foreseen!

In a dim kind of way Hyde realized this fact as he sat the next day with an open book before him.  He was not reading it; he was thinking of Cornelia—­of her pure, fresh beauty; and of that adorable air of reserve, which enhanced, even while it veiled her charms.  “For her love I could resign all adventures and prison myself in a law book,” he said, “I could forget all other beauties; in a word, I could marry, and live in the country.  Oh how exquisite she is!  I lose my speech when I think of her!”

Then he closed his book with impatience, and went to Prince’s and bought a little rush basket filled with sweet violets.  Into their midst he slipped his visiting card, and saw the boy on his way with the flowers to Cornelia ere he was satisfied they would reach her quickly enough.  This finished, he began to consider what he should do with his day.  Study was impossible; and he could think of nothing that was possible.  “It is the most miserable thing,” he muttered, “to be in love, unless you can go to the adored one, every hour, and tell her so,”—­then turning aimlessly into Pearl Street, he saw Cornelia.

She was dressed only in a little morning gown of Indian chintz, but in such simple toilet had still more distinctively that air of youthful modesty which he had found so charmingly tantalizing.  He hasted to her side.  He blessed his good angel for sending him such an enchanting surprise.  He said the most extravagant things, in the most truthful manner, as he watched the blushes of pleasure come and go on her lovely face, and saw by glimpses, under the veiling eyelids, that tender light that never was on sea or land, but only on a woman’s face when her soul is awakening to Love.

Cornelia was going to the “Universal Store” of Gerardus Duyckinck, and Hyde begged to go with her.  He said he was used to shopping; that he always went with his mother, and with Lady Christina Griffin, and Mrs. White, and many others; that he had good taste, and could tell the value of laces, and knew how to choose a piece of silk, or match the crewels for her embroidery; and, indeed, pleaded his case so merrily, that there was no refusing his offer.  And how it happened lovers can tell, but after the shopping was finished they found themselves walking towards the Battery with the fresh sea wind, and the bright sunshine and the joy of each other’s presence all around them.

“Such a miraculous piece of happiness!” the young fellow ejaculated; and his joy was so evident that Cornelia could not bear to spoil it with any reluctances, or with half-way graciousness.  She fell into his joyous mood, and as star to star vibrates light, so his soul touched her soul, through some finer element than ordinary life is conscious of.  A delightsome gladness was between them, and their words had such heart gaiety, that they seemed to dance as they spoke; while the wind blowing Cornelia’s curls, and scarf, and drapery, was like a merry playfellow.

Now Love has always something in it of the sea; and the murmur of the tide against the pier, the hoarse voices of the sailor men, the scent of the salt water, and all the occult unrecognized, but keenly felt life of the ocean, were ministers to their love, and forever and ever blended in the heart and memory of the youth and maid who had set their early dream of each other to its potent witchery.  Time went swiftly, and suddenly Cornelia remembered that she was subject to hours and minutes, A little fear came into her heart, and closed it, and she said, with a troubled air, “My mother will be anxious.  I had forgotten.  I must go home.”  So they turned northward again, and Cornelia was silent, and the ardour of her lover was a little chilled; but yet never before had Cornelia heard simple conversation which seemed so eloquent, and so full of meanings—­ only, now and then, a few brief words; but oh! what long, long thoughts, they carried with them!

At the gates of her home they stood a moment, and there Hyde touched her hand, and said, “I have never, in all my life, been so happy.  It has been a walk beyond hope, and beyond expression!” And she lifted her face, and the smile on her lips and the light in her eyes answered him.  Then the great white door shut her from his sight, and he walked rapidly away, saying to his impetuous steps—­

“An enchanting creature!  An adorable girl!  I have given her my heart; and lost, is lost; and gone, is gone forever.  That I am sure of.  But, by St. George! every man has his fate, and I rejoice that mine is so sweet and fair! so sweet! so sweet! so fair!”

Cornelia trembled as she opened the parlour door, she feared to look into her mother’s face, but it was as serene as usual, and she met her daughter’s glance with one of infinite affection and some little expectancy.  This was a critical moment, and Cornelia hesitated slightly.  Some little false sprite put a ready excuse into her heart, but she banished it at once, and with the courage of one who fears lest they are not truthful enough, she said with a blunt directness which put all subterfuge out of the question—­

“Mother, I have been a long time, but I met Lieutenant Hyde, and we walked down to the Battery; and I think I have stayed beyond the hour I ought to have stayed—­but the weather was so delightful.”

“The weather is very delightful, and Lieutenant Hyde is very polite.  Did he speak of the violets he sent you?”

“I suppose he forgot them.  Ah, there they are!  How beautiful!  How fragrant!  I will give them to you, mother.”

“They are your own, my dear.  I would not give them away.”

Then Cornelia lifted them, and shyly buried her face in their beauty and sweetness; and afterwards took the card in her hand and read “Lieutenant George Hyde.”  “But, mother,” she said, “Arenta called him Joris.”

“Joris is George, my dear.”

“Certainly, I had forgotten.  Joris is the Dutch, George is the English form.  I think I like George better.”

“As you have neither right nor occasion to call him by either name, it is of no consequence Take away your flowers and put them in water—­the young man is very extravagant, I think.  Do you know that it is quite noon, and your father will be home in a little while?”

And there was such kind intent, such a divining sympathy in the simple words, that Cornelia’s heart grew warm with pleasure; and she felt that her mother understood, and did not much blame her.  At the same time she was glad to escape all questioning, and with the violets pressed to her heart, and her shining eyes dropped to them, she went with some haste to her room.  There she kissed the flowers, one by one, as she put them in the refreshing water; and then, forgetting all else, sat down and permitted herself to enter the delicious land of Reverie.  She let the thought of Hyde repossess her; and present again and again to her imagination his form, his face, his voice, and those long caressing looks she had seen and felt, without seeming to be aware of them.

A short time after Cornelia came home, Doctor Moran returned from his professional visits.  As he entered the room, his wife looked at him with a curious interest.  In the first place, the tenor of her thoughts led her to this observation.  She wished to assure herself again that the man for whom she had given up everything previously dear to her was worthy of such sacrifice.  A momentary glance satisfied her.  Nature had left the impress of her nobility on his finely-formed forehead; nothing but truth and kindness looked from his candid eyes; and his manner, if a little dogmatic, had also an unmistakable air of that distinction which comes from long and honourable ancestry and a recognized position.  He had also this morning an air of unusual solemnity, and on entering the room, he drew his wife close to his heart and kissed her affectionately, a token of love he was not apt to give without thought, or under every circumstance.

“You are a little earlier to day,” she said.  “I am glad of it.”

“I have had a morning full of feeling.  There is no familiarity with Death, however often you meet him.”

“And you have met Death this morning, I see that, John?”

“As soon as I went out, I heard of the death of Franklin.  We have truly been expecting the news, but who can prepare for the final ‘He is gone.’  Congress will wear mourning for two months, I hear, and all good citizens who can possibly do so will follow their example.  The flags are at half-mast, and there is sorrow everywhere.”

“And yet, John, why?” asked Mrs. Moran.  “Franklin has quite finished his work; and has also seen the fruit of all his labours.  Not many men are so happy.  I, for one, shall rejoice with him, and not weep for him.”

“You are right, Ava.  I must now tell you that Elder Semple died this morning.  He has been long sick, but the end came suddenly at last.”

“The dear old man!  He has been sick and sorrowful, ever since his wife died.  Were any of his sons present?”

“None of them.  The two eldest have been long away.  Neil was obliged to leave New York when the Act forbidding Tory lawyers to practice was passed.  But he was not quite alone, his old friend Joris Van Heemskirk was with him to the last moment.  The love of these old men for each other was a very beautiful thing.”

“He was once rich.  Did he lose everything in the war?”

“Very near all.  His home was saved by Van Heemskirk, and he had a little money ‘enough to die wi’’ he said one day to me; and then he continued, ’there’s compensations, Doctor, in having naething to leave.  My lads will find no bone to quarrel over.’  I met a messenger coming for me this morning, and when I went to his bedside, he said, with a pleasant smile, ‘I’ll be awa’ in an hour or twa now, Doctor; and then I’ll hae no mair worrying anent rebellion and democrats; I’ll be under the dominion o’ the King o’ kings and His throned Powers and Principalities; and after a’ this weary voting, and confiscations, and guillotining, it will be Peace—­Peace—­Peace:’—­and with that word on his lips, the ‘flitting’ as he called it was accomplished.”

“There is nothing to mourn in such a death, John.”

“Indeed, no.  It was just as he said ‘a flitting.’  And it was strange that, standing watching what he so fitly called the ‘flitting,’ I thought of some lines I have not consciously remembered for many years.  They reflect only the old Greek spirit, with its calm acceptance of death and its untroubled resignation, but they seemed to me very applicable to the elder’s departure: 

 Not otherwise to the hall of Hades dim
    He fares, than if some summer eventide
 A Message, not unlooked for, came to him;
    Bidding him rise up presently, and ride
 Some few hours’ journey, to a friendly home.”

“There is nothing to fear in such a death.”

“Nothing at all.  Last week when Cornelia and I passed his house, he was leaning on the garden gate, and he spoke pleasantly to her and told her she was a ‘bonnie lassie.’  Where is Cornelia?”

“In her room.  John, she went to Duyckinck’s this morning for me, and George Hyde met her again, and they took a walk together on the Battery.  It was near the noon hour when she returned.”

“She told you about it?”

“Oh yes, and without inquiry.”

“Very good.  I must look after that young fellow.”  But he said the words without much care, and Mrs. Moran was not satisfied.

“Then you do not disapprove the meeting, John?” she asked.

“Yes, I do.  I disapprove of any young man meeting my daughter every time she goes out.  Cornelia is too young for lovers, and it is not desirable that she should have attentions from young men who have no intentions.  I do not want her to be what is called a belle.  Certainly not.”

“But the young men do not think her too young to be loved.  I can see that Rem Van Ariens is very fond of her.”

“Rem is a very fine young man.  If Cornelia was old enough to marry, I should make no objections to Rem.  He has some money.  He promises to be a good lawyer.  I like the family.  It is as pure Dutch as any in the country.  There is no objection to Rem Van Ariens.”

“And George Hyde?”

“Has too many objectionable qualities to be worth considering.”

“Such as?”

“Well, Ava, I will only name one, and one for which he is not responsible; but yet it would be insuperable, as far as I am concerned.  His father is an Englishman of the most pronounced type, and this young man is quite like him.  I want no Englishman in my family.”

“My family are of English descent.”

“Thoroughly Americanized.  They are longer in this country than the Washingtons.”

“There have been many Dutch marriages among the Morans.”

“That is a different thing.  The Dutch, as a race, have every desirable quality.  The English are natural despots.  Rem was quite right last night.  I saw and felt, as much as he did, the quiet but sovereign arrogance of young Hyde.  His calm assumption of superiority was in reality insufferable.  The young man’s faults are racial; they are in the blood.  Cornelia shall not have anything to do with him.  Why do you speak of such disagreeable things, Ava?”

“It is well to look forward, John.”

“No.  It is time enough to meet annoyances when they arrive.  But this is one not even to be thought of—­to tell the last truth, Ava, I dislike his father, General Hyde, very much indeed.”

“Why?”

“I cannot tell you ‘why.’  Yes, I will be honest and acknowledge that he always gives me a sense of hostility.  He arrogates himself too much.  When I was in the army, a good many were angry at General Washington, for making so close a friend of him—­but Washington has much of the same exclusive air.  I hope it is no treason to say that much, for a good deal of dignity is permissible, even peremptory, when a man fills great positions.  As for the Hydes, father and son, I would prefer to hear no more about them.  When the youth was my guest, I was civil to him; but Arenta.  You know that I have never seen her.”

“That is the truth.  I had forgotten.  Well, then, I went to her with the news; and she rubbed her chin, and called to her man Govert, to get a bow of crape and put it on the front door.  ’It is moral, and proper, and respectable, Arenta,’ she said, ‘and I advise you to do the same.’  But then she laughed and added, ’Shall I tell you, niece, what I think of the great men I have met?  They are disagreeable, conceited creatures; and ought, all of them, to have died before they were born; and for my part, I am satisfied not to have had the fate to marry one of them.  As for Benjamin Franklin,’ she continued, ’he was a particularly great man, and I am particularly grateful that I never saw him but once.  I formed my opinion of him then; for I only need to see a person once, to form an opinion—­and he is dead!  Well, then, every one dies at their own time.’”

“My father says Congress goes into mourning for him.”

“Does it?” asked Arenta, with indifference.  “Aunt was beginning to tell me something about him when he was in France, but I just put a stop to talk like that, and said, ‘Now, aunt, for a little of my own affairs.’  So I told her about George Berckel, and asked her if she thought I might marry George; and she answered, ’If you are tired of easy days, Arenta, go, and take a husband,’ After a while I spoke to her about Lieutenant Hyde, and she said, ’she had seen the little cockrel strutting about Pearl Street.’”

“That was not a proper thing to say.  Lieutenant Hyde carries himself in the most distinguished manner.”

“Well, then, that is exactly so; but Aunt Angelica has her own way of saying things.  She intended nothing unkind or disrespectful.  She told me that she had frequently danced with his father when she was a girl and a beauty; and she added with a laugh, ’I can assure you, Arenta, that in those days he was no saint; although he is now, I hear, the very pink of propriety.’”

“Is not that as it should be, Arenta?  We ought surely to grow better as we grow older.”

“That is not to be denied, Cornelia.  Now I can tell you something worth hearing about General Hyde.”

“If it is anything wrong, or unkind, I will not listen to it, Arenta.  Have you forgotten that the good Sisters always forbid us to listen to an evil report?”

“Then one must shut one’s ears if one lives in New York.  But, indeed, it is nothing wrong—­only something romantic and delightful, and quite as good as a story book.  Shall I tell you?”

“As you wish.”

“As you wish.”

“Then I would like to hear it.”

“Listen!  When Madame Hyde was Katherine Van Heemskirk, and younger than you are, she had two lovers; one, Captain Dick Hyde, and the other a young man called Neil Semple; and they fought a duel about her, and nearly cut each other to pieces.”

“Arenta!”

“Oh, it is the truth!  It is the very truth, I assure you!  And while Hyde still lay between life and death, Miss Van Heemskirk married him; and as soon as he was able, he carried her off at midnight to England; and there they lived in a fine old house until the war.  Then they came back to New York, and Hyde went into the Continental army and did great things, I suppose, for as we all knew, he was made a general.  You should have heard Aunt Angelica tell the story.  She remembered the whole affair.  It was a delightful story to listen to, as we drank our chocolate.  And will you please only try to imagine it of Mrs. General Hyde!  A woman so lofty!  So calm!  So afar off from every impropriety that you always feel it impossible in her presence to commit the least bit of innocent folly.  Will you imagine her as Katherine Van Heemskirk in a short, quilted petticoat, with her hair hanging in two braids down her back, running away at midnight with General Hyde!”

“He was her husband.  She committed no fault.”

“I was thinking of the quilted petticoat, and the two braids; for who now dresses so extravagantly and so magnificently as Madame Hyde?  She has an Indian shawl that cost two hundred pounds.  Aunt Angelica says John Embree told her ’that much at the very least’—­and as for the General! is there any man in New York so proud, and so full of dignity—­ and morality?  He is in St. Paul’s Chapel every Sunday, and when you see him there, how could you imagine that he had fought half-a-dozen duels, for half-a-dozen beauties?”

“Half-a-dozen duels!  Oh, Arenta!”

“About that number—­more or less—­before and after the Van Heemskirk incident.  Look at him next Sunday, and then try and believe that he was the topmost leader in all the fashionable follies, until he went to the war.  People say it is General Washington—­”

“General Washington?”

“That has changed him so much.  They have been a great deal together, and I do believe the proprieties are catching.  If evil is to be taken in bad company, why not good in the presence of all that is moral and respectable?  At any rate, who is now more proper than General Hyde?  Indeed, as Aunt Angelica says, we must all pay our respects to the Hydes, if we desire our own caps to set straight.  Cornelia, shall I tell you why you are working so close to the window this afternoon?”

“You are going to say something I would rather not hear, Arenta.”

“Truth is wholesome, if not agreeable; and the truth is, you expect Lieutenant Hyde to pass.  But he will not do so.  I saw him booted and spurred, on a swift horse, going up the river road.  He was bound for Hyde Manor, I am sure.  Now, Cornelia, you need not move your frame; for no one will disturb you, and I wish to tell you some of my affairs.”

“About your lovers?”

“Yes.  I have met a certain French marquis, who is attached to the Count de Moustier’s embassy.  I met him at intervals all last winter, and to-day, I have a love letter from him—­a real love letter—­and he desires to ask my father for my hand.  I shall now have something to say to Madame Kippon.”

“But you would not marry a Frenchman?  That is an impossible thought, Arenta.”

“No more so than an Englishman.  In fact, Englishmen are not to be thought of at all; while Frenchmen are the fashion.  Just consider the drawing-rooms of our great American ladies; they are full of French nobles.”

“But they are exiles, for the most part very poor, and devoted to the idea of monarchy.”

“Ah, but my Frenchman is different.  He is rich, he is in the confidence of the present French government, and he adores republican principles.  Indeed he wore at Lady Griffin’s, last week, his red cap of Liberty, and looked quite distinguished in it.”

“I am astonished that Lady Griffin permitted such a spectacle.  I am sure it was a vulgar thing to do.  Only the san-culottes, make such exhibition of their private feelings.”

“I think it was a very brave thing to do—­and Lady Griffin, with her English prejudices and aristocratic notions, had to tolerate it.  He is very tall and dark, and he was dressed in scarlet, with a long black satin vest; and you may believe that the scarlet cap on his black curling hair was very imposing.”

“Imposing!  How could it possibly be that?  It is only associated with mobs, and mob law—­and guillotining.”

“I shall not contradict you—­though I could do so easily.  I will say, then, that it was very picturesque.  He asked me to dance a minuet with him, and when I did not refuse he was beside himself with pleasure and gratitude.  And after I had opened the way, several of the best ladies in the town followed.  After all, it was a matter of political opinion; and it is against our American ideas to send any man to Jersey for his politics.  Mr. Jefferson was in red also.”

“I wish to dance with Mr. Jefferson, but I now think of waiting till he gets a new suit.”

“I am sure that no one ever made a finer figure in a dance than I, in my white satin and pearls, and the Marquis Athanase de Tounnerre in his scarlet dress and Liberty cap.  Every one regarded us.  He tells me, to-day, that the emotion I raised in his soul that hour has not been stilled for a moment.”

“Have you thought of your father?  He would never consent to such a marriage—­and what will Rem say?”

“My father will storm, and speak words he should not speak; but I am not afraid of words.  Rem is more to be dreaded.  He will not talk his anger away.  Yes, I should be afraid of Rem.”

“But you have not really decided to accept the Marquis Tounnerre?”

“No.  I have not quite decided.  I like to stand between Yes and No.  I like to be entreated to marry, and then again, to be entreated not to marry.  I like to hesitate between the French and the Dutch.  I am not in the least sure on which side I shall finally range myself.”

“Then do not decide in a hurry.”

“Have I not told you I like to waver, and vacillate, and oscillate, and make scruples?  These are things a woman can do, both with privilege and inclination.  I think myself to be very clever in such ways.”

“I would not care, nor dare, to venture—­”

“You are a very baby yet.  I am two years older than you.  But indeed you are progressing with some rapidity.  What about George Hyde?”

“You said he had gone out of town.”

“And I am glad of it.  He will not now be insinuating himself with violets, and compelling you to take walks with him on the Battery.  Oh, Cornelia! you see I am not to be put out of your confidence.  Why did you not tell me?”

“You have given me no opportunity; and, as you know all, why should I say any more about it?”

“Cornelia, my dear companion, I fear you are inclined to concealment and to reticence, qualities a young girl should not cultivate—­I am now speaking for dear Sister Maria Beroth—­and I hope you will carefully consider the advantages you will derive from cultivating a more open disposition.”

“You are making a mockery of the good Sisters; and I do not wish to hear you commit such a great fault.  Indeed, I would be pleased to return to their peaceful care again.”

“And wear the little linen cap and collar, and all the other simplicities?  Cornelia!  Cornelia!  You are as fond as I am of French fashions and fripperies.  Let us be honest, if we die for it.  And you may as well tell me all your little coquetries with George Hyde; for I shall be sure to find them out.  Now I am going home; for I must look after the tea-table.  But you will not be sorry, for it will leave you free to think of—­”

“Please, Arenta!”

“Very well.  I will have ‘considerations.’  Good-bye!”

Then the door closed, and Cornelia was left alone.  But the atmosphere of the room was charged with Arenta’s unrest, and a feeling of disappointment was added to it.  She suddenly realized that her lover’s absence from the city left a great vacancy.  What were all the thousands in its streets, if he was not there?  She might now indeed remove her frame from the window; if Hyde was an impossibility, there was no one else she wished to see pass.  And her heart told her the report was a true one; she did not doubt for a moment Arenta’s supposition, that he had gone to Hyde Manor.  But the thought made her lonely.  Something, she knew not what, had altered her life.  She had a new strange happiness, new hopes, new fears and new wishes; but they were not an unmixed delight; for she was also aware of a vague trouble, a want that nothing in her usual duties satisfied:—­in a word, she had crossed the threshold of womanhood and was no longer a girl,

“Singing alone in the morning of life,
 In the happy morning of life, and May.”