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

wedding, and Arenta’s drive through its pleasant streets was a kind of public invitation. For Jacob Van Ariens was one of a guild of wealthy merchants, and they were at their shop doors to express their sympathy by lifted hats and smiling faces; while the women looked from every window, and the little children followed, their treble voices heralding and acclaiming the beautiful bride. Then came the breakfast and the health-drinking and the speech-making and the rather sadder drive to the wharf at which lay La Belle France. And even Arenta was by this time weary of the excitement, so that it was almost with a sense of relief she stepped across the little carpeted gangway to her deck. Then the anchor was lifted, the cable loosened, and with every sail set La Belle France went dancing down the river on the tide-top to the open sea.

Van Ariens and his son Rem turned silently away. A great and evident depression had suddenly taken the place of their assumed satisfaction. “I am going to the Swamp office,” said Rem after a few moments’ silence, “there is something to be done there.”

“That is well,” answered Peter. “To my Cousin Deborah I will give some charges about the silver, and then I will follow you.”

Both men were glad to be alone. They had outworn emotion and knew instinctively that some common duty was the best restorer. The same feeling affected, in one way or another, all the watchers of this destiny. Women whose household work was belated, whose children were strayed, who had used up their nervous strength in waiting and feeling, were now cross and inclined to belittle the affair and to be angry at Arenta and themselves for their lost day. And men, young and old, all went back to their ledgers and counters and manufacturing with a sense of lassitude and dejection.

Peter had nearly reached his own house when he met Doctor Moran. The doctor was more irritable than depressed. He looked at his friend and said sharply, “You have a fever, Van Ariens. Go to bed and sleep.”

“To work I will go. That is the best thing to do. My house has no comfort in it. Like a milliner’s or a mercer’s store it has been for many weeks. Well, then, my Cousin Deborah is at work there, and in a little while—a little while—” He suddenly stopped and looked at the doctor with brimming eyes. In that moment he understood that no putting to rights could ever make his home the same. His little saucy, selfish, but dearly loved Arenta would come there no more; and he found not one word that could express the tide of sorrow rising in his heart. Doctor John understood. He remained quiet, silent, clasping Van Ariens’ hand until the desolate father with a great effort blurted out—

“She is gone!—and smiling, also, she went.”

“It is the curse of Adam,” answered Doctor Moran bitterly—“to bring up daughters, to love them, to toil and save and deny ourselves for them, and then to see some strange man, of whom we have no certain knowledge, carry them off captive to his destiny and his desires. ‘Tis a thankless portion to be a father—a bitter pleasure.”

“Well, then, to be a mother is worse.”

“Who can tell that? Women take for compensations things that do not deceive a father. And, also, they have one grand promise to help them bear loss and disappointment—the assurance of the Holy Scripture that they shall have salvation through child-bearing. And I, who have seen so much of family love and life, can tell you that this promise is all many a mother has for her travail and sorrowful love.”

“It is enough. Pray God that we miss not of that reward some share,” and with a motion of adieu he turned into his house. Very thoughtfully the Doctor went on to William Street where he had a patient,—a young girl of about Arenta’s age—very ill. A woman opened the door—a woman weeping bitterly.

“She is gone, Doctor.”

“At what hour?”

“The clock was striking three—she went smiling.”

Then he bowed his head and turned away.

There was nothing more that he could do; but he remembered that Arenta had stepped on board the La Belle France as the clock struck three, and that she also had gone smiling to her unknown destiny.

“Two emigrants,” he thought, “pilgrims of Love and Death, and both went smiling!” An unwonted tenderness came into his heart; he thought of the bright, lovely bride clinging so trustfully to her husband’s arm, and he voiced this gentle feeling to his wife in very sincere wishes for the safety and happiness of the little emigrant for Love. He had a singular reluctance to name her—he knew not why—with the other little maid who also had left smiling at three o’clock, an emigrant for whom Death had opened eternal vistas of delight.

“I do not know,” said Mrs. Moran, “how Van Ariens could suffer his daughter to go to a country full of turmoil and bloodshed.”

“He was very unhappy to do so, Ava. But when things have gone a certain length they have fatality. The Marquis had promised to become eventually a citizen of this Republic, and Van Ariens had no idea in sanctioning the marriage that his daughter would leave New York. It was even supposed the Marquis would remain here in the Count de Moustier’s place, and the sudden turn of events which sent de Tounnerre to France was a severe blow to Van Ariens. But what could he do?”

“He might have delayed the marriage until the return of de Tounnerre.”

“Ah, Ava! you are counting without consideration. He could not have detained Arenta against her will, and if he had, a miserable life would have been before both of them—domestic discomfort, public queries and suspicions, questions, doubts, offending sympathies—all the griefs and vexations that are sure to follow a Fate that is crossed. He did the best thing possible when he let the wilful girl go as pleasantly as he could. Arenta needs a wide horizon.”

“Is she in any danger from the state of affairs in Paris?”

“Mr. Jefferson says in no danger whatever. Our Minister is living there in safety. Arenta will have his friendship and protection; and her husband has many friends in the most powerful party. She will have a brilliant visit and be very happy.”

“How can she be very happy with the guillotine daily enacting such murders?”

“She need not be present at such murders. And Mr. Jefferson may be right, and we outsiders may make too much of circumstances that France, and France alone, can properly estimate. He says that the God that made iron wished not slaves to exist, and thinks there is a profound and eternal justice in this desolation and retribution of aristocrats who have committed unmentionable oppressions. I know not; good and evil are so interwoven in life that every good, traced up far enough, is found to involve evil. This is the great mystery of life. However, Ava, I am a great believer in sequences; there are few events that break off absolutely. In Arenta’s life there will be sequences; let us hope that they will be happy ones. Where is Cornelia?”

“I know not. She is asleep. The ball to-night is to be fairy-land and love-land,