The Maid of Maiden Lane

TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF

When Hyde awakened, he was in that borderland between dreams and day which we call dawn.  And as the ear is the last sense to go to sleep, and the first sense to throw off its lethargy, the voices of men calling “Milk Ho!” and the shrill childish cries of “Sweep Ho!” were the first intruders into that pleasant condition between sleeping and waking, so hard for any of us to leave without a sigh of regret.  These sounds were quickly supplemented by the roll of the heavy carts which purveyed the only water suitable for drinking and culinary purposes; and by the sounds of wood-sawing and wood-chopping before the doors of the adjacent houses—­sounds quickly blending themselves with the shuffling feet of the slaves cleaning the doorsteps and sidewalks, and chattering, singing, quarrelling the while with their neighbours, or with other early ministers to the city’s domestic wants.

These noises had never before made any impression on him.  “I am more alive than ever I was in my life,” he said; and he laughed gayly, and went to the window.  “It is a lovely day; and that is so much in my favour,” he added, “for if it were raining, Cornelia would not leave the house.”  Then a big man, with a voice like a bull of Bashan, went down the opposite side of the street, shouting as he went—­“Milk Ho!” and Hyde considered him.  He had a heavy wooden yoke across his shoulders; and large tin pails, full of milk, hanging from it.

“How English we are!” he exclaimed, with a touch of irony.  “We have not thrown off the yoke, by any means—­at Mr. Adams’, for instance, I could believe myself in England.  How exclusive is the pompous little Minister!  What respect for office!  What adoration for landed gentry!  What supercilious tolerance for tradesmen!  Oh, indeed, it confounds me!  But why should I trouble myself?  I, who have the most adorable mistress in the world to think about!  What are the kings, presidents, ministers, knaves of the world to me?  Let Destiny shuffle them back and forth.  I am indifferent to whichever is trumps.”

Then he fell into a reverie about his proposed visit to Mrs. Adams.  Last night it had appeared to him an easy and natural thing to do.  He was not so sure of his position this morning.  Mr. Adams might be present; he was punctilious in the extreme, and a call without an invitation at that early hour might be considered an impertinence—­especially if he had no opportunity to enlighten Mrs. Adams about his love for Miss Moran, and so ask her assistance.  Then he began to doubt whether his mother was on sufficient terms of intimacy to warrant his speaking about the swans and laburnum seeds—­in short, the visit that had seemed so natural and proper when he first conceived it, assumed, on reflection, an aspect of difficulty and almost of impropriety.

But there are times when laissez-aller carries all before it, and Hyde was in just such a mood.  “I’ll run the chance,” he said.  “I’ll risk it.  I’ll let things take their course.”  Then he began to dress, and as doubt of any kind is best ended by action, he gathered confidence as he did so.  Fortunately, there was no hesitation this morning in his mind about his dress.  He was going to ride to Richmond Hill, and he was quite satisfied with his riding suit.  He knew that it was the next thing to a becoming uniform.  He knew that he looked well in it; and he remembered with complaisance that it was old enough to be individual; and new enough to be handsome and striking.

And, after all, when a man is in love, to be reasonable is often to be cowardly.  But Hyde was no coward; so then, it was not long ere he put all fears and doubts behind him and set his musings to the assertion:  “I said to my heart, last night, that I would meet Cornelia at Richmond Hill this morning.  I will not go back on my word.  Such fluctuability is only fit for failure.”

When he was dressed he went to his hotel and breakfasted there; for the “cup of coffee” he had intended to ask of Mrs. Adams appeared, now, a little presumptuous.  In the enthusiasm of the previous night, with Cornelia’s smiles warming his imagination and her words thrilling his heart, everything had seemed possible and natural; but last night and this morning were different epochs.  Last night, he had been better, stronger than himself; this morning, he felt all the limitations of social conveniences and tyrannies.  Early as it was, there were many members and senators present—­eating, drinking coffee, and talking of Franklin, or of the question of the Senate sitting with closed doors, or of some other of the great little subjects then agitating society.  Hyde took no notice of any of these disputes until a man—­evidently an Englishman—­called Franklin “a beggar-on-horseback-Yankee.”  Then he put down his knife and fork, and looked steadily at the speaker, saying with the utmost coolness and firmness—­

“You are mistaken, sir.  The beggar-on-horseback is generally supposed to ride to the devil.  Franklin rode to the highest posts of political honour and to the esteem and affection of worthy men in all the civilized world.”

“I understand, I understand, sir,” was the reply.  “The infatuation of a nation for some particular genius or leader is very like that of a man for an ugly woman.  When they do get their eyes opened, they wonder what bewitched them.”

“Sir, what is unreasonable is irrefutable.”  With these words he rose, pushed aside his chair with a little temper, and, turning, met Jefferson face to face.  The great man smiled, and put his hand affectionately on Hyde’s shoulder.  He had evidently heard the conversation, for when he had made the usual greetings, he added—­

“You spoke well, my young friend.  Now, I will give you a piece of advice—­when any one abuses a great man in your presence, ask them what kind of people, they admire.  You will certainly be consoled.”  With these words he took Hyde’s chair; and Hyde, casting his eyes a moment on this tall, loose-limbed man, whose cold blue eyes and red hair emphasized the stern anger of his whole appearance, was well disposed to leave the scurrilous Englishman to his power of reproof.  Besides, the badge of mourning which Jefferson wore had reminded him of his own neglect.  Probably, it was the want of this badge that had made the stranger believe he was speaking to one who would sympathize with his views.

So he went at once to his tailor’s and procured the necessary band of crape for his arm.  But these events took time, and though he rode hard afterwards, it was quite half-past nine when he drew rein at the door of Richmond Hill.  A slave in a fine livery was lounging there; and he gave him his card.  In a few moments the man returned with an invitation to dismount and come into the breakfast-room.  Thus far, he had suffered himself to be carried forward by the impulse of his heart; and he still put firmly down any wonder as to what he should say or do.

He was shown into a bright little parlour with open windows.  A table, elegantly and plentifully spread, occupied the centre of the room; and sitting at it were the Vice-President and Mrs. Adams; and also their only daughter, the beautiful, but not very intellectual, Mrs. Smith.  It was easy to see that the meal was really over, and that the trio had been simply lingering over the table because of some interesting discussion; and it was quite as easy to understand that his entrance had put an end to the conversation.  Mrs. Adams met him with genuine, though formal, kindness; Mrs. Smith with courtesy; and the Vice-President rose, bowed handsomely, hoped he was well, and then after a minute’s reflection said—­

“We were talking about the official title proper for General Washington.  What do you think, Lieutenant?  Or have you heard General Hyde express any opinion on the subject?”

“Sir, I do not presume to understand the ceremonials of government.  My father is of the opinion, that ‘The President of the United States’ has a Roman and republican simplicity, and that any addition to it would be derogatory and childish.”

“My dear young man, the eyes of the world are upon us.  To give a title to our leaders and rulers belongs to history.  In the Roman republic great conquerors assumed even distinctive titles, as well as national ones.”

“Then our Washington is superior to them.  Let us be grateful that he has not yet called himself—­Americanus.  I like Doctor Kunz’s idea of Washington best, but I see not how it could be put into a civil title.”

“Doctor Kunz!  Doctor Kunz!  Oh yes, of the Dutch congregation.  Pray what is it?”

“‘And there came up a lion out of Judah.’  My grandfather is an elder in that church, and he said the verse and the sermon on it lifted the people to their feet.”

“That might do very well for one side of a state seal; but it is a proper prefix we need.  I don’t think we can say ’Your Majesty the President.’”

“I should think not,” replied Mrs. Adams with an air of decision.

“Chief Justice McKean thinks ’His Serene Highness the President of the United States’ is very suitable.  Roger Sherman is of the opinion that neither ‘His Highness’ nor ‘His Excellency’ are novel and dignified enough; and General Muhlenberg says Washington himself is in favour of ‘High Mightiness,’ the title used by the Stadtholder of Holland.”

“That would please the Dutch-Americans,” said Mrs. Adams—­” if a title at all is necessary, which I confess I cannot understand.  Is it to be ‘High Mightiness’ then?” she asked with a little laugh.

“I think not.  Muhlenberg, however, has seriously offended the President by making a joke of the proposition; and I must say, it was ill-timed of Muhlenberg, and not what I should have expected of him.”

“But what was the joke?”

“Something to the effect that if the office was certain to be held by men as large as Washington, the title of ‘High Mightiness’ would not be amiss; but that if a little man—­say like Aaron Burr—­should be elected, the title would be a ridiculous one.  The fact is, Muhlenberg is against any title whatever but that of ‘President of the United States.’”

“And how will you vote, John?”

“In favour of a title.  Certainly, I shall.  Your Majesty is a very good prefix.  It would draw the attention of England, and show her that we were not afraid to assume ‘the majesty’ of our conquest.”

“And if you wish to please France,” continued Mrs. Adams—­“which seems the thing in fashion—­you might have the prefix ‘Citizen.’  ’Citizen Washington’ is not bad.”

“It is execrable, Mrs. Adams; and I am ashamed that you should make it, even as a pleasantry.”

“Indeed, my friend, there is no foretelling what may be.  The French fever is rising every day.  I even may be compelled to drop the offensive ‘Mistress’ and call myself Citoyenne Adams.  And, after all, I do believe that the President regards his citizenship far above his office.  What say you, Lieutenant?”

“I think, madame, that fifty, one hundred, one thousand years after this day, it will be of little importance what prefix is put before the name of the President.  He will be simply George Washington in every heart and on every page.”

“That is true,” said Mrs. Adams.  “Fame uses no prefixes.  It is Pompey, Julius Caesar, Pericles, Alfred, Hampden, Oliver Cromwell.  Or it is a suffix like Alexander the Great; or Richard Coeur-de-Lion.  I have no objection to Washington the Great, or Washington Coeur-de-Lion.”

“Washington will do for love and for fame,” continued Hyde.  “The next generation may say Mr. Madison, or Mr. Monroe, or Mr. Jay; but they will want neither prefix nor suffix to Washington, Jefferson, Franklin,—­and, if you permit me, sir—­Adams.”

The Vice-president was much pleased.  He said “Pooh!  Pooh!” and stood up and stepped loftily across the hearth-rug, but the subtle compliment went warm to his heart, and the real worth of the man’s nature came straight to the front, as he looked, under its influence, the honest, positive, honourable gentleman that every great occasion found him to be.

“Well, well,” he answered; “heartily, and from our souls, we must do our best, and then trust to Truth and Time, our name and our memory.  But I must now go to town—­our affairs give us no holidays.”  And then instantly the room was in a fuss and a flurry.  No Englishman could have made a more bustling exit; and, indeed, even in his physical aspect, John Adams was a perfect picture of the traditional John Bull.  His natural temperament carried out this likeness:  high-mettled as a game-cock during the Revolutionary war, he was, in politics, passionate, dogmatic and unconciliating, and in social life ceremonious and showy as any Englishman could be.

After he had gone, Mrs. Adams proposed a walk in the lovely garden; and Hyde hoped then to obtain a few words with her.  But Mrs. Smith accompanied them, and introduced immediately a grievance she had evidently been previously discussing.  With a provoking petulance she told and re-told some slight which Sir John Temple had offered Mr. Smith:  adding always “Lady Temple is very civil to me; but I cannot, and I will not, exchange visits with any lady who does not pay my William an equal civility.”  Enlarging and enlarging on this text, Hyde found no opportunity to get a word in on his own affairs; and then, suddenly, as they turned into the main avenue, Doctor Moran and Cornelia appeared.

Quite as suddenly, Mrs. Adams divined the motive of Hyde’s early visit; she opened her eyes wide, and looked at him with a comprehension so clear and real that Hyde was compelled to answer, and acknowledge her suspicion by a look and movement quite as unequivocal.  Yet this instantaneous understanding contained neither promise nor sympathy; and he could not tell whether he had gained a friend or simply made a confession.

Doctor Moran was evidently both astonished and annoyed.  He stepped out of his carriage and joined Mrs. Adams but kept Cornelia by his side, so that Hyde was compelled to escort Mrs. Smith.  And Cornelia, beyond a very civil “Good-morning, sir,” gave him no sign.  He could watch her slight, virginal figure, and the bend of her head in answering Mrs. Adams gave him transient glimpses of her fair face; but there was no message in all its changes for him.  In fact, in spite of Mrs. Smith’s little rill of social complaining, he felt quite “out” of the inner circle of the company’s interests, and he was also deeply mortified at Cornelia’s apparent indifference.

When the party reached the steps before the house door, though Mrs. Adams certainly invited him to remain, he had come to the conclusion that he was just the one person not wanted at that time; yet as he had plenty of self-command he completely hid beneath a gay and charming manner the chagrin and disappointment that were really tormenting him.  For one moment he caught Cornelia’s eyes, but his glance was too rapid and inquisitive.  She was embarrassed, and a little frightened by it; and with a deep blush turned towards Mrs. Smith and said something trivial about the weather and the fine view.  He could not understand this attitude.  Feelings of tenderness, anger, mortification,—­feelings strong and threefold crowded his beating heart and vivid brain.  He longed to set his restless thoughts to rapid movement—­to gallop—­to ejaculate—­to do any foolish thing that would relieve his sense of vexation and defeat.  But until he was out of sight and hearing he rode slowly, with the easy air of a man who was only sensitive to the beauty of his surroundings, and thoroughly enjoying them.

He kept this pace till quite outside the precincts of Richmond Hill, then he struck his horse with a passion that astonished the animal and the next moment shamed himself.  He stooped instantly and apologized to the quivering creature; and was as instantly forgiven.  Then he began to talk to himself in those elliptical, unfinished sentences, which the inner man understands, and so thoroughly finishes—­” If I were not morally sure—­It is as plain as can be—­How in the name of wonder?—­I’ll say so much for myself—­I am sorry that I went there—­A couple of uninteresting women—­This for you, sir!—­Whistled myself up this morning on a fool’s errand—­No more! no more to save my life!—­Grant me patience—­Mrs. Smith giving herself a parcel of airs—­Oh, adorable Cornelia!”

Such reflections, blended with pet names and apologies to his horse, brought him in sight of the Van Heemskirk house, and he instantly felt how good his grandmother’s sympathy would be.  He saw her at the door, leaning over the upper-half and watching his approach.

“I knew it was thee!” she cried; “always, the clatter of thy horse’s hoofs says plainly to me, ‘Grand-moth-er! grand-moth-er! grand-moth-er!’ Now, then, what is the matter with thee?  Disappointed, wert thou last night?”

“No—­but this morning I have been badly used; and I am angry at it.”  Then he told her all the circumstances of his visit to Richmond Hill, and she listened patiently, as was her way with all complainers.

“In too great haste art thou,” were her first words.  “No worse I think of Cornelia, because a little she draws back.  To want, and to have thy want, that has been the way with thee all thy life long.  Even thy sword and the battlefield were not denied thee; but a woman’s love!—­that is to be won.  Little wouldst thou value it, lightly wouldst thou hold it, if it were thine for the wishing.  Thy mother has taught thee to expect too much.”

“And my grandmother?”

“That is so.  A very foolish old woman is thy grandmother.  Too much she loves thee, or she had not sent thee to Arenta’s last night with her best ivory winders.”

“Oh, Arenta is a very darling!  Had she been present this morning, she had taken the starch out of all our fine talk and fine manners.  We should have chattered like the swallows about pleasant homely things; and left title-making to graver fools.”

“If, now, thou had fallen in love with Arenta, it had been a good thing.”

“If I had not seen Cornelia, I might have adored Arenta—­but, then, Arenta has already a lover.”

“So?  And pray who is it?”

“Of all men in the world, the gay, handsome Frenchman, Athanase Tounnerre, a member of the French embassy.  How a girl so plainly Dutch can endure the creature confounds me.”

“Stop a little.  The grandmother of Arenta was French.  Very well I remember her—­a girl all alive, from head to foot; never still.  Thy grandfather used to say, ‘In her veins is quick-silver, not blood,’ And, too soon, she wore away her life; Arenta’s mother was but a baby, when she died.”

“Ah!  So it is!  We are the past, as well as the present.  As for myself—­”

“Thou art thy father over again; only sweeter, and better—­that is the Dutch in thee—­the happy, easy-going Dutch—­if only thou wert not so lazy.”

“That is the English in me—­the self-indulgent, masterful English.  So then, Arenta, being partly French, back to the French she goes.  ’Tis passing strange.”

“Of this, art thou sure?”

“I have listened to the man.  Every one has.  He wears Arenta’s name on his sleeve.  He drinks her health in all companies.  He will talk to any stranger he meets, for an hour at a time, about his ‘fair Arenta.’  I can but wonder at the fellow.  It is inconceivable to me; for though I am passionately taken with Cornelia Moran, I hide her close in my heart.  I should want to strike any man who breathed her name.  Yet it is said of Athanase de Tounnerre that he paid a visit to every one he knew, in order to tell them of his felicity.”

“And her father?  To such a marriage what will he say?”

Hyde stretched out his legs and struck them lightly with his riding whip.  Then, with a smile, he answered, “He will be proud enough in his heart.  Arenta would certainly leave him soon, and the Dutch are very sensible to the charm of a title.  His daughter, the Marquise de Tounnerre, will be a very great woman in his eyes.”

“That is the truth.  I was glad for thy mother to be a lady, and go to Court, and see the Queen.  Yes, indeed! in my heart I was proud of it ’Twas about that very thing poor Janet Semple and I became unfriends.”

“Indeed, it is the common failing; and at present, there is no one like the French.  I will except the President, and Mr. Adams, and Mr. Hamilton, and say the rest of us are French mad.”

“Thy grandfather, and thy grandmother too, thou may except.  And as for thy father, with a great hatred he names them.”

“My father is English; and the English and French are natural and salutary enemies.  I once heard Lord Exmouth say that France was to England all that Carthage was to Rome—­the natural outlet for the temper of a people so quarrelsome that they would fight each other if they had not the French to fight.”

“Listen!  That is thy father’s gallop.  Far off, I know it.  So early in the morning, what is he coming for?”

“He had an intention to go to Mr. Semple’s funeral.”

“That is good.  Thy grandfather is already gone—­” and she looked so pointedly down at her black petticoat and bodice, that Hyde answered—­

“Yes; I see that you are in mourning.  Is it for Mr. Franklin, or for Mr. Semple?”

“Franklin was far off; by my fireside Alexander Semple often sat; and at my table often he ate.  Good friends were we once—­good friends are we now; for all but Love, Death buries.”

At this moment General Hyde entered the room.  Hurry and excitement were in his face, though they were well controlled.  He gave his hand to Madame Van Heemskirk, saying—­

“Good-morning, mother!  You look well, as you always do:”—­then turning to his son and regarding the young man’s easy, smiling indifference, he said with some temper, “What the devil, George, are you doing here, so early in the day?  I have been through the town seeking you—­everywhere—­ even at that abominable Club, where Frenchmen and vagabonds of all kinds congregate.”

“I was at the Vice-President’s, sir,” answered George, with a comical assumption of the Vice-President’s manner.

“You were where?”

“At Richmond Hill.  I made an early call on Mrs. Adams.”

Then General Hyde laughed heartily.  “You swaggering dandy!” he replied.  “Did you take a bet at the Belvedere to intrude on His Loftiness?  And have you a guinea or two on supping a cup of coffee with him?  Upon my honour, you must now be nearly at the end of your follies.  Mother, where is the Colonel?”

“He has gone to Elder Semple’s house.  You know—­”

“I know well.  For a long time I have purposed to call on the old gentleman, and what I have neglected I am now justly denied.  I meant, at least, to pay him the last respect; but even that is to-day impossible.  For I must leave for England this afternoon at five o’clock, and I have more to do than I can well accomplish.”

George leaped to his feet at these words.  Nothing could have been more unexpected; but that is the way with Destiny, her movements are ever unforeseen and inevitable.  “Sir,” he cried, “what has happened?”

“Your uncle is dying—­perhaps dead.  I received a letter this morning urging me to take the first packet.  The North Star sails this afternoon, and I do not wish to miss her, for she flies English colours, and they are the only ones the Barbary pirates pretend to respect.  Now, George, you must come with me to Mr. Hamilton’s office; we have much business to arrange there; then, while I pay a farewell visit to the President, you can purchase for me the things I shall require for the voyage.”

So far his manner had been peremptory and decided, but, suddenly, a sweet and marvellous change occurred.  He went close to Madame Van Heemskirk, and taking both her hands, said in a voice full of those tones that captivate women’s hearts—­

“Mother! mother!  I bid you a loving, grateful farewell!  You have ever been to me good, and gentle, and wise—­the very best of mothers.  God bless you!” Then he kissed her with a solemn tenderness, and Lysbet understood that he believed their parting to be a final one.  She sat down, weeping, and Hyde with an authoritative motion of the head, commanding his son’s attendance, went hastily out.  It was then eleven o’clock, and there was business that kept both men hurrying here and there until almost the last hour.  It had been agreed that they were to meet at the City Hotel at four o’clock; and soon after that hour General Hyde joined his son.  He looked weary and sad, and began immediately to charge George concerning his mother.

“We parted with kisses and smiles this morning,” he said; “and I am glad of it; if I went back, we should both weep; and a wet parting is not a lucky one.  I leave her in your charge, George; and when I send her word to come to England, look well to her comfort.  And be sure to come with her.  Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“On no account—­even if she wishes it—­permit her to come alone.  Promise me.”

“I promise you, sir.  What is there that I would not do for my mother?  What is there I would not do to please you, sir?”

“Let me tell you, George, such words are very sweet to me.  As to yourself, I do not fear for you.  It is above, and below reason, that you should do anything to shame your kindred, living or dead—­the living indeed, you might reconcile; the dead are implacable; and their vengeance is to be feared.”

“I fear not the dead, and I love the living.  The honour of Hyde is safe in my keeping.  If you have any advice to give me, sir, pray speak plainly.”

“With all my soul.  I ask you, then, to play with some moderation.  I ask you to avoid any entanglement with women.  I ask you to withdraw yourself, as soon as possible, from those blusterers for French liberty—­ or rather French license, robbery, and assassination—­I tell you there is going to be a fierce national fracas on the subject.  Stand by the President, and every word he says.  Every word is sure to be wise and right.”

“Father, I learnt the word ‘Liberty’ from your lips.  I drew my sword under your command for ‘Liberty.’  I know not how to discard an idea that has grown into my nature as the veining grows into the wood.”

“Liberty!  Yes; cherish it with your life-blood.  But France has polluted the name and outraged the idea.  Neither you nor I can wish to be swept into the common sewers, being by birth, nobles and aristocrats.  Earl Stanhope, who was heart and soul with the French Revolution while it was a movement for liberty, has just scratched his name with his own hand from the revolutionary Club.  And Burke, who was once its most enthusiastic defender, has now written a pamphlet which has given it, in England, a fatal blow.  This news came in my letters to-day.”  Then taking out his watch, he rose, saying, “Come, it is time to go to the ship—­my dear George!”

George could not speak.  He clasped his father’s hand, and then walked by his side to Coffee House Slip, where the North Star was lying.  There was no time to spare, and the General was glad of it; for oh, these last moments!  Youth may prolong them, but age has lost youth’s rebound, and willingly escapes their disintegrating emotion.  Before either realized the fact, the General had crossed the narrow plank; it was quickly withdrawn; the anchor was lifted to the chanty of “Homeward bound boys,” and the North Star, with wind and tide in her favour, was facing the great separating ocean.

George turned from the ship in a maze.  He felt as if his life had been cut sharply asunder; at any rate, its continuity was broken, and what other changes this change might bring it was impossible to foresee.  In any extremity, however, there is generally some duty to do; and the doing of that duty is the first right step onward.  Without reasoning on the matter, George followed this plan.  He had a letter to deliver to his mother; it was right that it should be delivered as soon as possible; and indeed he felt as if her voice and presence would be the best of all comfort at that hour; so late as it was, he rode out to Hyde Manor.  His mother, with a lighted candle in her hand, opened the door for him.

“I thought it was thy father, Joris,” she said; “but what?  Is there anything wrong?  Why art thou alone?”

“There is nothing wrong, dear mother.  Come, I will tell you what has happened.”

Then she locked the door carefully, and followed her son into the small parlour, where she had been sitting.  He gave her his father’s letter, and assumed for her sake, the air of one who has brought good tidings.  She silently read, and folded it; and George said, “It was the most fortunate thing, the North Star being ready for sea.  Father could hardly have had a better boat; and they started with wind and tide in their favour.  We shall hear in a few weeks from him.  Are you not pleased, mother?”

“It is too late, Joris;—­twenty years too late.  And I wish not to go to England.  Very unhappy was I in that cold, grey country.  Very happy am I here.”

“But you must have expected this change?”

“Not until your cousin died was there any thought of such a thing.  And long before that, we had built and begun to love dearly this home.  I wish, then, it had been God’s will that your cousin had not died.”

“My father—­”

“Ah, Joris, your father has always longed in his heart for England.  Like a weaning babe that never could be weaned was he.  In many ways, he has lately shown me that he felt himself to be a future English earl.  And thou too?  Wilt thou become an Englishman?  Then this fair home I have made for thee will forget thy voice and thy footstep.  Woe is me!  I have planted and planned, for whom I know not.”

“You have planned and planted for your Joris.  I swear to you that I like England as little as you do.  I despise the tomfoolery of courts and ceremonies.  I count an earl no better than any other honourable gentleman.  I desire most of all to marry the woman I love, and live here in the home that reminds me of you wherever I turn.  I want your likeness on the great stairway, and in all the rooms; so that those who may never see your face may love you; and say, ’How good she looks!  How beautiful she is!’”

“So true art thou!  So loving!  So dear to me!  Even in England I can be happy if I think of thee Here—­filling these big rooms with good company; riding, shooting, over thine own land, fishing in thy own waters, telling thy boys and girls how dear grandmother had this pond dug—­this hedge planted—­these woods filled with game—­these streams set with willows—­these summerhouses built for pleasure.  Oh, I have thought ever as I worked, I shall leave my memory here—­and here—­and here again—­for never, Joris, never, dear Joris, while thou art in this world, must thou forget me!”

“Never!  Never, oh never, dear, dear mother!”

And that night they said no more.  Both felt there would be plenty of time in the future to consider whatever changes it might have in store for them.