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

“One question only—why then did you treat my grandson so badly? A shameful thing it is to be a flirt.”

“I am not a flirt, madame. And I did not treat your grandson badly. No, indeed!”

“Yes, indeed! He told me so himself.”

“He told you so?”

“He told me so. Surely he did.”

“That I treated him badly?”

“Pray then what else? You let a young man love you—you let him tell you so—you tell him ‘yes, I love you’ and then when he says marry me, you say, ‘no.’ Such ways I call bad, very bad! Not worthy of my Joris are you, and so then, I am glad you said ‘no.’”

“I do not understand you.”

“Neither did you understand my Joris—a great mistake he made—and he did not understand you; and I do not understand such ways of the girls of this day. They are shameless, and I am ashamed for you.”

“Madame, you are very rude.”

“And very false are you.”

“I am not false.”

“My Joris told me so. Truth itself is Joris. He would not lie. He would not deceive.”

“If your grandson told you I had deceived him, and refused to marry him,—let it be so. I have no wish to contradict your grandson.”

“That you cannot do. I am ashamed—”

“Madame, I wish you good morning;” and with these words Cornelia left the store. Her cheeks were burning; the old lady’s angry voice was in her ears, she felt the eyes of every one in the store upon her, and she was indignant and mortified at a meeting so inopportune. Her heart had also received a new stab; and she had not at the moment any philosophy to meet it. Joris had evidently told his grandmother exactly what the old lady affirmed. She had not a doubt of that, but why? Why had he lied about her? Was there no other way out of his entanglement with her? She walked home in a hurry, and as soon as possible shut herself in her room to consider this fresh wrong and injustice.

She could arrive at only one conclusion—Annie’s most unexpected appearance had happened immediately after his proposal to herself. He was pressed for time, his grandparents would be especially likely to embarrass him concerning her claims, and of course the quickest and surest way to prevent questioning on the matter, was to tell them that she had refused him. That fact would close their mouths in sympathy for his disappointment, and there would be no further circumstances to clear up. It was the only explanation of madame’s attitude that was possible, and she was compelled to accept it, much as it humiliated her. And then after it had been accepted and sorrowed over, there came back to her those deeper assurances, those soul assertions, which she could not either examine or define, but which she felt compelled to receive—He loves me! I feel it! It is not his fault! I must not think wrong of him.

There was still Madame Jacobus to hope for. She was so shrewd and so kindly, that Cornelia felt certain of her sympathy and wise advice. But month after month passed away and madame’s house remained empty and forlorn-looking. Now and then there came short fateful letters from Arenta, and Van Ariens—utterly miserable—visited them frequently that he might be comforted with their assurances of his child’s ability to manage the very worst circumstances in which she could be placed.

And so the long summer days passed and the winter approached again; but before that time Cornelia had at least attained to the wisest of all the virtues—that calm, hushed contentment, which is only another name for happiness—that contentment which accepts the fact that there is a chain of causes linked to effects by an invincible necessity; and that whatever is, could not have wisely been but so. And if this was fatalism, it was at least a brighter thing than the languid pessimism, which would have led her life among quicksands, to end it in wreck.

One day at the close of October she put down her needlework with a little impatience. “I am tired of sewing, mother,” she said, “and I will walk down to the Battery and get a breath of the sea. I shall not stay long.”

On her way to the Battery she was thinking of Hyde, and of their frequent walks together there; and for once she passed the house of Madame Jacobus without a glance at its long-closed windows. It was growing dark as she returned, and ere she quite reached it she was aware of a glow of fire light and candle light from the windows. She quickened her steps, and saw a servant well known to her standing at the open door directing two men who were carrying in trunks and packages. She immediately accosted him.

“Has madame returned at last, Ameer?” she asked joyfully.

“Madame has returned home,” he answered. “She is weary—she is not alone—she will not receive to-night.”

“Surely not. I did not think of such a thing. Tell her only that I am glad, and will call as soon as she can see me.”

The man’s manner—usually so friendly—was shy and peculiar, and Cornelia felt saddened and disappointed. “And yet why?” she asked herself. “Madame has but reached home—I did not wish to intrude upon her—Ameer need not have thought so—however I am glad she is back again”—and she walked rapidly home to the thoughts which this unexpected arrival induced. They were hopeful thoughts, leaning—however she directed them—towards her absent lover. She felt sure madame would see clearly to the very bottom of what she could not understand. She went into her mother’s presence full of renewed expectations, and met her smile with one of unusual brightness.

“Madame Jacobus is at home,” said Mrs. Moran, before Cornelia could speak. “She sent for your father just after you left the house, and I suppose that he is still there.”

“Is she sick?”

“I do not know. I fear so, for the visit is a long one.”

It continued so much longer that the two ladies took their tea alone, nor could they talk of any other subject than madame, and her most unexpected call for Doctor Moran’s services. “It was always the Dutch Doctor Gansvoort she had before,” said Mrs. Moran; “and she was ever ready to scoff at all others, as pretenders.—I do wonder what keeps your father so long?”

It was near ten o’clock when Doctor Moran returned, and his face was sombre and thoughtful—the face of a man who had been listening for hours to grave matters, and who had not been able to throw off their physical reflection.

“Have you had tea, John?” asked Mrs. Moran.

“No. Give me a good strong cup, Ava. I am tired with listening and feeling.”

She poured it out quickly, and after he had taken the refreshing drink, Cornelia asked—

“Is madame very ill?”

“She is wonderfully