The Maid of Maiden Lane by Amelia E. Barr (free novels to read TXT) 📗

“The railings of a losing lover are not worth answering. Give your anger sway, and when you are reasonable again, tell me. A man mad in love has some title to my pity.”

“And, sir, if you were any other man but my father, I would say Confound your pity!’ I am not sensible of deserving it, except as the result of your own unreasonable demands on me—Our conversation is extremely unpleasant, and I desire to put an end to it. Permit me to return to the house.”

“With all my heart. But let me advise you to say nothing to your mother, at present, on this subject:” then with an air of dejection he added—“What is past, must go; and whatever is to come is very sure to happen.”

“Sir, nothing past, present, or future, can change me. I shall obey the wishes of my heart, and be true to its love.”

“Let me tell you, George, that Love is now grown wise. He follows Fortune.”

“Good-morning, sir.”

“Let it be so. I will see you to-morrow in town. Ten to one, you will be more reasonable then.”

He stood in the centre of the roadway watching his son’s angry carriage. The poise of his head, and his rapid, uneven steps, were symptoms the anxious father understood very well. “He is in a naked temper, without even civil disguise,” he muttered; “and I hope his own company will satisfy him until the first fever is past. Do I not know that to be in love is to be possessed? It is in the head—the heart—the blood—it is indeed an uncontrollable fever! I hope, first and foremost, that he will keep away from his mother in his present unreason.”

His mother was, however, George’s first desire. He did not believe she would sanction his sacrifice to Annie Hyde. Justice, honour, gratitude! these were fine names of his father’s invention to adorn a ceremony which would celebrate his life-long misery, and he rebelled against such an immolation of his youth and happiness. When he reached the house, he found that his mother had gone to the pond to feed her swans; and he decided to ride a little out of his way in order to see her there. Presently he came to a spot where tall, shadowing pines surrounded a large sheet of water, dipping their lowest branches into it. Mrs. Hyde stood among them, and the white, stately birds were crowding to her very feet. He reined in his horse to watch her, and though accustomed to her beauty, he marvelled again at it. Like a sylvan goddess she stood, divinely tall, and divinely fair; her whole presence suffused with a heavenly serenity and happiness! Upon the soft earth the hoofs of his horse had not been audible, but when he came within her sight, it was wonderful to watch the transformation on her countenance. A great love, a great joy, swept away like a gust of wind, the peace on its surface; and a glowing, loving intelligence made her instantly restless. She called him with sweet imperiousness, “George! Joris! Joris! My dear one!” and he answered her with the one word ever near, and ever dear, to a woman’s heart—“MOTHER!”

“I thought you were with your father. Where have you left him?”

“In the wilderness. There is need for me to go to the city. My father will tell you WHY. I come only to see you—to kiss you—”

“Joris, I see that you are angry. Well then, my dear one, what is it? What has your father been saying to you?”

“He will tell you.”

“SO! Whatever it is, your part I shall take. Right or wrong, your part I shall take.”

“There is nothing wrong, dear mother.”

“Money, is it?”

“It is not money. My father is generous to me.”

“Then, some woman it is?”

“Kiss me, mother. After all, there is no woman like unto you.”

She drew close to him, and he stooped his handsome face to hers, and kissed her many times. Her smile comforted him, for it was full of confidence, as she said—

“Trouble not yourself, Joris. At the last, your father sees through my eyes. Must you go? Well then, the Best of Beings go with you!”

“When are you coming to town, mother?”

“Next week. There is a dinner party at the President’s, and your father will not be absent—nor I—nor you?”

“If I am invited, I shall go, just that I may see you enter the room. Let me tell you, that sight always fills my heart with a tumultuous pride and love.”

“A great flatterer are you, Joris!” but she lifted her face again, and George kissed it, and then rode rapidly away.

He hardly drew rein until he reached his grandfather’s house, a handsome Dutch residence, built of yellow brick, and standing in a garden that was, at this season, a glory of tulips and daffodils, hyacinths and narcissus—the splendid colouring of the beds being wonderfully increased by their borderings of clipped box. An air of sunshiny peace was over the place, and as the upper-half of the side-door stood open he tied his horse and went in. The ticking of the tall house-clock was the only sound he heard at first, but as he stood irresolute, a sweet, thin voice in an adjoining room began to sing a hymn.

“Grandmother! Grandmother!! Grandmother!!!” he called, and before the last appeal was echoed the old lady appeared. She came forward rapidly, her knitting in her hand. She was singularly bright and alert, with rosy cheeks, and snow-white hair under a snow-white cap of clear-starched lace. A snow-white kerchief of lawn was crossed over her breast, and the rest of her dress was so perfectly Dutch that she might have stepped out of one of Tenier’s pictures.

“Oh, my Joris!” she cried, “Joris! Joris! I am so happy to see thee. But what, then, is the matter? Thy eyes are full of trouble.”

“I will tell you, grandmother.” And he sat down by her side and went over the conversation he had had with his father. She never interrupted him, but he knew by the rapid clicking of her knitting needles that she was moved far beyond her usual quietude. When he ceased speaking, she answered—

“To sell thee, Joris, is a great shame, and for nothing to sell thee is still worse. This is what I think: Let half of the income from the earldom go to the poor young lady, but THYSELF into the bargain, is beyond all reason. And if with Cornelia Moran thou art in love, a good thing it is;—so I say.”

“Do you know Cornelia, grandmother?”

“Well, then, I have seen her; more than once. A great beauty I think her; and Doctor John has Money—plenty of money—and a very good family are the Morans. I remember his father—a very fine gentleman.”

“But my father hates Doctor Moran.”

“Very wicked is he to hate any one. Why, then?”

“He gave me only