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

from which she sprang. The spirit of the men who fought Alva is in her, and I think she will be a match for Marat, if it comes to that. Suppose you go and see Van Ariens, and give him all the comfort you can. Are you too weary?”

“I should like to see him, I am not tired now. Home is such a good doctor.”

“I think you will find him in his house. He comes from his office very early these days.”

Cornelia crossed the street and was going to knock at the door, when Van Ariens hastily opened it. His broad face shone with pleasure, and when Cornelia told him her errand, he was in a hurry of loving anxiety to hear what his child had written.

“I understand,” he said, when he had heard the letter. “She is frightened, the poor little one! but she will smile and say ‘it is nothing.’ That is her way. However, I yet think I must go to her.”

“Do not,” urged Cornelia. “France is now at war with Holland, and you would be recognized as a Dutchman.”

“That is so. My tongue would tell tales on me; and to go—even to heaven—by the guillotine, is not what a good man would wish. No indeed!”

“And you may see by Arenta’s letter, that she does not fear the guillotine. Come over to-night and talk to my father and mother, and I will tell you what I saw in Philadelphia.”

“Well then, I will come.”

“Is Madame Jacobus back in New York yet?”

“She is in London.”

“But why in London?”

“That, I know not. Two reasons I can suppose, but which is right, or if either be right, that is beyond my certainty.”

“Is her sister-in-law dead?”

“She is dead. Her husband was an Englishman; perhaps then it is about some property in England she has gone. If it is not that, of nothing else can I think but Captain Jacobus. But my sister Angelica had ever two ways—nothing at all she would say about her money or her business; but constantly, to every one, she would talk of her husband. I think then it is money or property that has taken her to England. For if it had been Jacobus, to the whole town she would have told it.” Then he took both Cornelia’s hands in his, and looking at her earnestly said—

“Poor Rem! Impossible is it?”

“Quite impossible, sir,” she answered.

“When he got thy letter refusing his love and offer, he went to Boston. I think he will not come back to me. I am very sorry,” he said simply, and he let her hands drop.

“I am sorry also—for your sake. I hear however that Rem is doing well in Boston.”

“Better than his hopes. Very good fortune has come to him.”

“And you, sir?”

“I am not doing much at present—but Smith and Warren do less. In an hour or two to your house I will come. There is plenty to talk about.”

The next day Cornelia walked down Broadway to Madame Jacobus’ house. It was closed and desolate looking, and she sighed as she compared its old bright spotless comfort, with its present empty forlornness. The change typified the change in her heart and love, but ere she could entertain the thought, her eyes fell upon the trees in the garden, full of the pale crinkled leaves of spring, and she saw the early flowers breaking through the dark earth, and the early shrubs bursting into white and golden blooms. In some way they had a message for her; and she went home with hope budding in her heart. Soon after Mrs. Moran heard her singing at her work,

“The far east glows, The morning wind blows fresh and free; Should not the hour that wakes the rose Awaken thee? No longer sleep— Oh listen now! I wait and weep, But where art thou?”

From one to another song she went, simple melodies all of them, delightful little warblings of love, which except for their gladness and loyalty, had nothing in them to charm.

She was a deserted maiden. Her lover had palpably and with extreme cruelty deceived her; but she had grieved, and forgiven. And love brings its reward, even if unrequited. Those who love, and have loved, are the better for the revelation; for love for love’s sake enriches and blesses the lover to the very end of life. She did not forget, for love has everlasting remembrance; and she did not wish to forget, for a great affection is a great happiness, and the whole soul can find shelter in it.

Neither were her days monotonous or unhappy. All the real pleasures of life lie in narrow compass; and she found herself very often a little hurried for want of time. She had not, it is true, the resources of the woman of to-day—no literary, musical, social, or sporting clubs existed for Cornelia; but she had duties and devices that made every moment pleasant or profitable. Many hours daily were given to fine needlework—calm quiet hours full of thought as well as work; she had her music to practice, new books and papers to read, calls to make, mantua makers and milliners to interview, dinners and dances and tea-parties to attend, shopping to look after, delicate bits of darning and mending to exercise her skill on, creams and pasties and cakes to prepare, visitors to welcome and entertain, and many other duties which sprang up—as extras do—unexpectedly, and yet which opened the door for very pleasant surprises and events.

Besides which, there was her father. After her return from school she had always driven with him to some extent; but his claim on her now was often a little exacting. He said the fresh spring winds were good for her, and that she stayed in the house too much, and there was no evading the dictum that came with both parental and medical authority. Perhaps this demand upon her time would not have been made if the Hydes had been in New York; but Doctor Moran by frequent inquiries satisfied himself that they were yet in Philadelphia; and for his daughter’s satisfaction he frequently said as they drove up Maiden Lane, “We will take the Greenwich Road, there is no fear of our meeting any one we do not wish to see.” She understood the allusion, and was satisfied to escape meetings that promised her nothing but pain.

In the month of May there occurred one of those wet spells which are so irritating “growing weather” of course, but very tiresome to those who felt the joy of spring escaping them. Week after week it was too damp, or the winds were too sharp, or the roads too heavy for quick driving, and thus the month of all months went out of the calendar with few red letter days to brighten it. Then June came