The Maid of Maiden Lane, Amelia E. Barr [phonics reader TXT] 📗

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?”