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

would have helped me. She would have sent for Cornelia. I might have pleaded my cause face to face with her.” Then angrily— “Faith! can I yet care for a girl so cruel and so false? I am not to be pitied if I do. I will go to my dear mother. Mother-love is always sure, and always young. Whatever befalls, it keeps constant truth. I will go to my mother.”

He rode rapidly through the city and spoke to no one, but when he reached his Grandfather Van Heemskirk’s house, he saw him leaning over the half-door smoking his pipe. He drew rein then, and the old gentleman came to his side:

“Why art thou here?” he asked. “Is thy father, or Lady Annie sick?”

“I know nothing new. There was no letter yesterday.”

“Yesterday! Surely thou must know that they are now at home? Yesterday, very early in the morning, they landed.”

“My father at home!”

“That is the truth. Where wert thou, not to know this?”

“I came to town yesterday morning. I had a great trouble. I was sick and kept my room.”

“And sick thou art now, I can see that,” said Madame Van Heemskirk coming forward—“What is the matter with thee, my Joris?”

“Cornelia has refused me. I know not how it is, that no woman will love me. Am I so very disagreeable?”

“Thou art as handsome and as charming as can be; and it is not Cornelia that has said ‘no’ to thee, it is her father. Now he will be sorry, for thy uncle is dead and thy father is Earl Hyde, and thou thyself art a lord.”

“I care not for such things. I am a poor lord, if Cornelia be not my lady.” “I wonder they sent not after thee!”

“They would be expecting me every hour. If there had been a letter I should have gone directly back with it, but it was beyond all surmising, that my father should return. Grandfather, will you see Doctor Moran for me? You can speak a word that will prevail.”

“I will not, my Joris. If thy father were not here, that would be different. He is the right man to move in the matter. Ever thou art in too much of a hurry. Think now of thy life as a book of uncut leaves, and do not turn a page till thou hast read it to the very last word.”

“I will see Cornelia for thee,” said Madame Van Heernskirk. “I will ask the girl what she means. Very often she passes here, sometimes she comes in. I will say to her—why did thou throw my grandson’s love away like an old shoe? Art thou not ashamed to be so light of love, for I know well thou said to my Joris, thou loved him. And she will tell me the truth. Yes, indeed, if into my house she comes, out of it she goes not, until I have the why, and the wherefore.”

“Do not be unkind to her, grandmother—perhaps it is not her fault—if she had only said a few sorrowful words—Let me show you her letter.”

“No,” said Van Heernskirk. “One thing at a time, Joris. Now it is the time to go and welcome thy father and thy cousin—too long has been the delay already.”

“Then good-bye! Grandmother, you will speak or me?” And she smiled and nodded, and stood on her tiptoe while Joris stooped and kissed her—“Fret not thyself at all. I will see Cornelia and speak for thee.” And then he kissed her again and rode away.

Very near the great entrance gates of Hyde Manor he met his father and mother walking. Madame, the Right Honourable the Countess of Hyde, was pointing out the many improvements she had made; and the Earl looked pleased and happy. George threw himself off his horse with a loving impetuosity, and his mother questioned him about his manner of spending the previous day. “How could thou help knowing thy father had landed?” she asked. “Was not the whole city talking of the circumstance?”

“I was not in the city, mother. I went to the post office and from there to Madame Jacobus. She was just leaving for Charleston, and I went with her to the boat.”

“What an incredible thing! Madame Jacobus leaving New York! For what? For why?”

“She has gone to nurse her sister-in-law, who is dying. That is of all things the most likely—for she has a great heart.”

“You say that—I know not.”

“It is the truth itself. Afterwards I had my lunch and then came on a fever and a distracting headache, and I was compelled to keep my room; and so heard nothing at all until my grandfather told me the good news this morning.”

“Madame Kippon was on the dock and saw thy father and cousin land. The news would be a hot coal in her mouth till she told it, and I am amazed she did not call at thy lodging. Now go forward; when thy father and I have been round the land, we will come to thee. Thy cousin Annie is here.”

“That confounds me. I could hardly believe it true.”

“She is frail, and her physicians thought the sea voyage might give her the vitality she needs. It was at least a chance, and she was determined to take it. Then thy father put all his own desires behind him, and came with her. We will talk more in a little while. I see thy dress is untidy, and I dare say thou art hungry. Go, eat and dress, by that time we shall be home.”

But though his mother gave him a final charge “to make haste,” he went slowly. The thought of Cornelia had returned to his memory with a sweet, strong insistence that carried all before it. He wondered what she was doing—how she was dressed—what she was thinking—what she was feeling—-He wondered if she was suffering—if she thought he was suffering—if she was sorry for him—He made himself as wretched as possible, and then some voice of comfort anteceding all reasoning, told him to be of good cheer; for if Cornelia had ever loved him, she must love him still; and if she had only been amusing herself with his devotion, then what folly to break his heart for a girl who had no heart worth talking about.

Poor Cornelia! She was at that moment the most unhappy woman in New York. She had excused the “ten words” he might have written yesterday. She had found in the unexpected return of his father and cousin reason sufficient for his neglect; but it was now past ten o’clock of another day, and there was yet no word from him. Perhaps then he was coming. She sat at her tambour frame listening till all her senses and emotions seemed to have fled to her ear. And the ear has memory, it watches for an accustomed sound, it will not suffer us to forget the voice, the step of those we love. Many footsteps passed, but none stopped at the gate; none came up the garden path, and no one lifted the knocker. The house itself was painfully still; there was no sound but the faint noise made by Mrs.