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

Moran as she put down her Dobbin or her scissors. The tension became distressing. She longed for her father—for a caller—for any one to break this unbearable pause in life.

Yet she could not give up hope. A score of excuses came into her mind; she was sure he would come in the afternoon. He MUST come. She read and reread his letter. She dressed herself with delightful care and sat down to watch for him. He came not. He sent no word, no token, and as hour after hour slipped away, she was compelled to drop her needle.

“Mother,” she said, “I am not well. I must go upstairs.” She had been holding despair at bay so many hours she could bear it no longer. For she was so young, and this was the first time she had been yoke-fellow with sorrow. She was amazed at her own suffering. It seemed so impossible. It had come upon her so swiftly, so suddenly, and as yet she was not able to seek any comfort or sympathy from God or man. For to do so, was to admit the impossibility of things yet turning out right; and this conclusion she would not admit; she was angry at a word or a look that suggested such a termination.

The next morning she called Balthazar to her and closely questioned him. It had struck her in the night, that the slave might have lost the letter, and be afraid to confess the accident. But Balthazar’s manner and frank speech was beyond suspicion. He told her exactly what clothing Lieutenant Hyde was wearing, how he looked, what words he said, and then with a little hesitation took a silver crown piece from his pocket and added “he gave it to me. When he took the letter in his hand he looked down at it and laughed like he was very happy; and he gave me the money for bringing it to him; that is the truth, sure, Miss Cornelia.”

She could not doubt it. There was then nothing to be done but wait in patience for the explanation she was certain would yet come. But on with what leaden motion the hours went by! For a few days she made a pretence of her usual employments, but at the end of a week her embroidery frame stood uncovered, her books were unopened her music silent, and she declared herself unable to take her customary walk. Her mother watched her with unspeakable sympathy, but Cornelia’s grief was dumb; it made no audible moan, and preserved an attitude which repelled all discussion. As yet she would not acknowledge a doubt of her lover’s faith; his conduct was certainly a mystery, but she told her heart with a passionate iteration that it would positively be cleared up.

Now and then the Doctor, or a visitor, made a remark which might have broken this implicit trust, and probably did facilitate that end; for it was evident from them, that Hyde was in health, and that he was taking his share in the usual routine of daily life:—thus, one day Mrs. Wiley while making a call said—

“I met the new Countess and the Lady Annie Hyde, and I can tell you the new Countess is very much of a Countess. As for the Lady Annie,” she added, “she was wrapped to her nose in furs, and you could see nothing of her but two large black eyes, that even at a distance made you feel sad and uncomfortable. However Lord George Hyde appeared to be very much her servant.”

“There has been talk of a marriage between them,” answered Mrs. Moran, for she was anxious to put her daughter out of all question. “I should think it would be a very proper marriage.”

“Oh, indeed, ‘proper marriages’ seldom come off. Love marriages are the fashion at present.”

“Are they not the most proper of all?”

“On the contrary, is there anything more indiscreet? Of a thousand couples who marry for love, hardly one will convince us that the thing can be done, and not repented of afterwards.”

“I think you are mistaken,” said Mrs. Moran coldly. “Love should always seek its match, and that is love—or nothing.”

“Oh indeed! It is you are mistaken,” continued Mrs. Wiley. “As the times go, Cupid has grown to cupidity, and seeks his match in money or station, or such things.”

“Money, or station, or such things find their match in money, or station, or such things.—They are not love.”

“Well then the three may go together in this case. But the girl has an uncanny, unworldlike face. Captain Wiley says he has seen mermaids with the same long look in their eyes. Do you know that Rem Van Ariens has gone to Boston?”

“We have heard so;”—and then the Doctor entered, and after the usual formalities said, “I have just met Earl Hyde and his Countess parading themselves in the fine carriage he brought with him, ‘Tis a thousand pities the President did not wait in New York to see the sight.”

“Was Lady Annie with them?” asked Mrs. Wiley, “we were just talking about her.”

“Yes, but one forgets that she is there—or anywhere. She seems as if she were an accident.”

“And the young lord?”

“The young lord affects the democratic.”

Such conversations were not uncommon, and Mrs. Moran could not with any prudence put a sudden stop to them. They kept Cornelia full of wondering irritation, and gradually drove the doubt into her soul—the doubt of her lover’s sincerity which was the one thing she could not fight against. It loosened all the props of life; she ceased to struggle and to hope. The world went on, but Cornelia’s heart stood still; and at the end of the third week things came to this—her father looked at her keenly one morning and sent her instantly to bed. At the last the breakdown had come in a night, but it had found all ready for it.

“She has typhoid, or I am much mistaken,” he said to the anxious mother. “Why have you said nothing to me? How has it come about? I have heard no complaining. To have let things go thus far without help is dreadful—it is almost murder.”

“John! John! What could I do? She could not bear me to ask after her health. She said always that she was not sick. She would not hear of my speaking to you. I thought it was only sorrow and heart-ache.”

“Only sorrow and heart-ache. Is not that enough to call typhoid or any other death? What is the trouble? Oh I need not ask, I know it is that young Hyde. I feel it. I saw this trouble coming; now let me know the whole truth.”

He listened to it with angry amazement. He said he ought to have been told at the time—he threw aside all excuses—for being a man how could he understand why women put off, and hope, and suffer? He was sure the rascal ought to have been brought to explanation the very first day:—and then he broke down and wept his wife’s tears, and echoed all her piteous moan for her daughter’s wronged love and breaking heart.

“What is left us now, is to try and save her dear life,” said the miserable father. “Suffering we cannot spare her. She must pass alone through the Valley of the Shadow; but it may be she will lose this sorrow in its dreadful paths.