"Where, then, is Bram?" he asked testily. "When I was a young man, it was the garden or the store for me before this hour. Too much you indulge the children, Lysbet."

"Bram was late to bed. He was on the watch last night at the pole. You know, Councillor, who in that kind of business has encouraged him."

"Every night the watch is not for him."

"Oh, then, but the bad habit is made!"

"Well, well; tell him to Joanna's to go the first thing, and to send home Katherine. I like her not in the house of Batavius."

"Joanna is her sister, Joris."

"Joanna is nothing at all in this world but the wife of Batavius. Send for Katherine home. I like her best to be with her mother."

As he spoke, Bram came to the table, looking a little heavy and sleepy. Joris rose without more words, and in a few moments the door shut sharply behind him. "What is the matter with my father?"

"Cross he is." By this time Lysbet was also cross; and she continued, "No wonder at it. Katherine has stayed at Joanna's all night, and late to breakfast were you. Yet ever since you were a little boy, you have heard your father say one thing, 'Late to breakfast, hurried at dinner, behind at supper;' and I also have noticed, that, when the comfort of the breakfast is spoiled, then all the day its bad influence is felt."

In the meantime Joris reached his store in that mood which apprehends trouble, and finds out annoyances that under other circumstances would not have any attention. The store was in its normal condition, but he was angry at the want of order in it. The mail was no later than usual, but he complained of its delay. He was threatening a general reform in everything and everybody, when a man came to the door, and looked up at the name above it.

"Joris Van Heemskirk is the name, sir;" and Joris went forward, and asked a little curtly, "What, then, can I do for you?"

"I am Martin Hudde the fisherman."

"Well, then?"

"If you are Joris Van Heemskirk, I have a letter for you. I got it from 'The Dauntless' last night, when I was fishing in the bay."

Without a word Joris took the letter, turned into his office, and shut the door; and Hudde muttered as he left, "I am glad that I got a crown with it, for here I have not got a 'thank you.'"

It was Katherine's writing; and Joris held the folded paper in his hand, and looked stupidly at it. The truth was forcing itself into his mind, and the slow-coming conviction was a real physical agony to him. He put his hand on the desk to steady himself; and Nature, in great drops of sweat, made an effort to relieve the oppression and stupor which followed the blow. In a few minutes he opened and laid it before him. Through a mist he made out these words:

MY FATHER AND MY MOTHER: I have gone with my husband. I married Richard when he was ill, and to-night he came for me. When I left home, I knew not I was to go. Only five minutes I had. In God's name, this is the truth. Always, at the end of the world, I shall love you. Forgive me, forgive me, mijn fader, mijn moeder. Your child, KATHERINE HYDE.

He tore the letter into fragments; but the next moment he picked them up, folded them in a piece of paper, and put them in his pocket. Then he went to Mrs. Gordon's. She had anticipated the visit, and was, in a measure, prepared for it. With a smile and outstretched hands, she rose from her chocolate to meet him. "You see, I am a terrible sluggard, Councillor," she laughed; "but the colonel left early for Boston this morning, and I cried myself into another sleep. And will you have a cup of chocolate? I am sure you are too polite to refuse me."

"Madam, I came not on courtesy, but for my daughter. Where is my Katherine?"

"Truth, sir, I believe her to be where every woman wishes,—with her husband. I am sure I wish the colonel was with me."

"Her husband! Who, then?"

"Indeed, Councillor, that is a question easily answered,—my nephew, Captain Hyde, at your service. You perceive, sir, we are now connections; and I assure you I have the highest sense imaginable of the honour."

"When were they married?"

"In faith, I have forgotten the precise date. It was in last October; I know it was, because I had just received my winter manteau,—my blue velvet one, with the fur bands.'

"Who married them?"



"Oh, indeed! It was the governor's chaplain,—the Rev. Mr. Somers, a relative of my Lord Somers, a most estimable and respectable person, I assure you. Colonel Gordon, and Captain Earle, and myself, were the witnesses. The governor gave the license; and, in consideration of Dick's health, the ceremony was performed in his room. All was perfectly correct and regular, I"—

"It is not the truth. Pardon, madam; full of trouble am I. And it was all irregular, and very wicked, and very cruel. If regular and right it had been, then in secret it had not taken place."

"Admit, Councillor, that then it had not taken place at all; or, at least, Richard would have had to wait until Katherine was of age."

"So; and that would have been right. Until then, if love had lasted, I would have said, 'Their love is stronger than my dislike;' and I would have been content."

"Ah, sir, there was more to the question than that! My nephew's chances for life were very indifferent, and he desired to shield Katherine's name with his own"—

"Christus! What say you, madam? Had Katherine no father?"

"Oh, be not so warm, Councillor! A husband's name is a far bigger shield than a father's. I assure you that the world forgives a married woman what it would not forgive an angel. And I must tell you, also, that Dick's very life depended on the contentment which he felt in his success. It is the part of humanity to consider that."

"Twice over deceived I have been then"—

"In short, sir, there was no help for it. Dick received a most unexpected favour of a year's furlough two days ago. It was important for his wounded lung that he should go at once to a warm climate. 'The Dauntless' was on the point of sailing for the West Indies. To have bestowed our confidence on you, would have delayed or detained our patient, or sent him away without his wife. It was my fault that Katherine had only five minutes given her. Oh, sir, I know my own sex! And, if you will take time to reflect, I am sure that you will be reasonable."

"Without his wife! His wife! Without my consent? No, she is not his wife."

"Sir, you must excuse me if I do not honour your intelligence or your courtesy. I have said 'she is his wife.' It is past a doubt that they are married."

"I know not, I know not—O my Katherine, my Katherine!"

"I pray you, sit down, Councillor. You look faint and ill; and in faith I am very sorry that, to make two people happy, others must be made so wretched." She rose and filled a glass with wine, and offered it to Joris, who was the very image of mental suffering,—all the fine colour gone out of his face, and his large blue eyes swimming in unshed tears.

"Drink, sir. Upon my word, you are vastly foolish to grieve so. I protest to you that Katherine is happy; and grieving will not restore your loss."

"For that reason I grieve, madam. Nothing can give me back my child."

"Come, sir, every one has his calamity; and, upon my word, you are very fortunate to have one no greater than the marriage of your daughter to an agreeable man, of honourable profession and noble family."

"Five minutes only! How could the child think? To take her away thus was cruel. Many things a woman needs when she journeys."

"Oh, indeed, Katharine was well considered! I myself packed a trunk for her with every conceivable necessity, as well as gowns and manteaus of the finest material and the most elegant fashion. If Dick had been permitted, he would have robbed the Province for her. I assure you that I had to lock my trunks to preserve a change of gowns for myself. When the colonel returns, he will satisfy you that Katherine has done tolerably well in her marriage with our nephew. And, indeed, I must beg you to excuse me further. I have been in a hurry of affairs and emotions for two days; and I am troubled with the vapours this morning, and feel myself very indifferently."

Then Joris understood that he had been politely dismissed. But there was no unkindness in the act. He glanced at the effusive little lady, and saw that she was on the point of crying, and very likely in the first pangs of a nervous headache; and, without further words, he left her.

The interview had given Joris very little comfort. At first, his great terror had been that Katherine had fled without any religious sanction; but no sooner was this fear dissipated, than he became conscious, in all its force, of his own personal loss and sense of grievance. From Mrs. Gordon's lodgings he went to those of Dominie Van Linden. He felt sure of his personal sympathy; and he knew that the dominie would be the best person to investigate the circumstances of the marriage, and authenticate their propriety.

Then Joris went home. On his road he met Bram, full of the first terror of his sister's disappearance. He told him all that was necessary, and sent him back to the store. "And see you keep a modest face, and make no great matter of it," he said. "Be not troubled nor elated. It belongs to you to be very prudent; for your sister's good name is in your care, and this is a sorrow outsiders may not meddle with. Also, at once go back to Joanna's, and tell her the same thing. I will not have Katherine made a wonder to gaping women."

Lysbet was still a little on the defensive; but, when she saw Joris coming home, her heart turned sick with fear. She was beating eggs for her cake-making, and she went on with the occupation; merely looking up to say, "Thee, Joris; dinner will not be ready for two hours! Art thou sick?"

"Katherine—she has gone!"

"Gone? And where, then?"

"With that Englishman; in 'The Dauntless' they have gone."

"Believe it not. 'The Dauntless' left yesterday morning: Katherine at seven o'clock last night was with me."

"Ah, he must have returned for her! Well he knew that if he did not steal her away, I had taken her from him. Yes, and I feared him. When I heard that 'The Dauntless' was to take him to the West Indies, I watched the ship. After I kissed Katherine yesterday morning, I went straight to the pier, and waited until she was on her way." Then he told her all Mrs. Gordon had said, and showed her the fragments of Katherine's letter. The mother kissed them, and put them in her bosom; and, as she did so, she said softly, "it was a great strait, Joris."

"Well, well, we also must pass through it. The Dominie Van Linden has gone to examine the records; and then, if she his lawful wife be, in the newspapers I must advertise the marriage. Much talk and many questions I shall have to bear."

"'If,' 'if she his lawful wife be!' Say not 'if' in my hearing; say not 'if' of my Katherine."

"When a girl runs away from her home"—

"With her husband she went; keep that in mind when people speak to thee."

"What kind of a husband will he be to her?"

"Well, then, I think not bad of him. Nearer home there are worse men. Now, if sensible thou be, thou wilt make the best of what is beyond thy power. Every bird its own nest builds in its own way. Nay, but blind birds are we all, and God builds for us. This marriage of God's ordering may be, though not of thy ordering; and against it I would no longer fight. I think my Katherine is happy; and happy with her I will be, though the child in her joy I see not."

"So much talk as there will be. In the store and the streets, a man must listen. And some with me will condole, and some with congratulations will come; and both to me will be vinegar and gall."

"To all—friends and unfriends—say this: 'Every one chooses for themselves. Captain Hyde loved my daughter, and for her love nearly he died; and my daughter loved him; and what has been from the creation, will be.' Say also, 'Worse might have come; for he hath a good heart, and in the army he is much loved, and of a very high family is he.' Joris, let me see thee pluck up thy courage like a man. Better may come of this than has come of things better looking. Much we thought of Batavius"—

"On that subject wilt thou be quiet?"

"And, if at poor little Katherine thou be angry, speak out thy mind to me; to others, say nothing but well of the dear one. Now, then, I will get thee thy dinner; for in sorrow a good meal is a good medicine."



While they were eating this early dinner, Joanna came in, sad and tearful; and with loud lamentings she threw herself upon her mother's shoulder. "What, then, is the matter with thee?" asked Lysbet, with great composure.

"O mother, my Katherine! my sister Katherine!"

"I thought perhaps thou had bad news of Batavius. Thy sister Katherine hath married a very fine gentleman, and she is happy. For thou must remember that all the good men do not come from Dordrecht."

"I am glad that so you take it. I thought in very great sorrow you would be."

"See that you do not say such words to any one, Joanna. Very angry will I be if I hear them. Batavius, also; he must be quiet on this matter."

"Oh, then, Batavius has many things of greater moment to think about! Of Katherine he never approved; and the talk there will be he will not like it. Before from Boston he comes back, I shall be glad to have it over."

"None of his affair it is," said Joris. "Of my own house and my own daughter, I can take the care. And if he like the talk, or if he like not the talk, there it will be. Who will stop talking because Batavius comes home?"

When Joris spoke in this tone on any subject, no one wished to continue it: and it was not until her father had left the house, that Joanna asked her mother particularly about Katherine's marriage. "Was she sure of it? Had they proofs? Would it be legal? More than a dozen people stopped me as I came over here," she said, "and asked me about everything."

"I know not how more than a dozen people knew of anything, Joanna. But many ill-natured words will be spoken, doubtless. Even Janet Semple came here yesterday, thinking over Katherine to exult a little. But Katherine is a great deal beyond her to-day. And perhaps a countess she may yet be. That is what her husband said to thy father."

"I knew not that he spoke to my father about Katherine."

"Thou knows not all things. Before thou wert married to Batavius, before Neil Semple nearly murdered him, he asked of thy father her hand. Thou wast born on thy wedding day, I think. All things that happened before it have from thy memory passed away."

"Well, I am a good wife, I know that. That also is what Batavius says. Just before I got to the gate, I met Madam Semple and Gertrude Van Gaasbeeck; they had been shopping together."

"Did they speak of Katherine?"

"Indeed they did."

"Or did you speak first, Joanna? It is an evil bird that pulls to pieces its own nest."

"O mother, scolded I cannot be for Katherine's folly! My Batavius always said, 'The favourite is Katherine.' Always he thought that of me too much was expected. And Madam Semple said—and always she liked Katherine—that very badly had she behaved for a whole year, and that the end was what everybody had looked for. It is on me very hard,—I who have always been modest, and taken care of my good name. Nobody in the whole city will have one kind word to say for Katherine. You will see that it is so, mother."

"You will see something very different, Joanna. Many will praise Katherine, for she to herself has done well. And, when back she comes, at the governor's she will visit, and with all the great ladies; and not one among them will be so lovely as Katherine Hyde."

And, if Joanna had been in Madam Semple's parlour a few hours later, she would have had a most decided illustration of Lysbet's faith in the popular verdict. Madam was sitting at her tea-table talking to the elder, who had brought home with him the full supplement to Joanna's story. Both were really sorry for their old friends, although there is something in the best kind of human nature that indorses the punishment of those things in which old friends differ from us.

Neil had heard nothing. He had been shut up in his office all day over an important suit; and, when he took the street again, he was weary, and far from being inclined to join any acquaintances in conversation. In fact, the absorbing topic was one which no one cared to introduce in Neil's presence; and he himself was too full of professional matters to notice that he attracted more than usual attention from the young men standing around the store-doors, and the officers lounging in front of the 'King's Arms' tavern.

He was irritable, too, with exhaustion, though he was doing his best to keep himself in control and when madam his mother said pointedly, "I'm fearing, Neil, that the bad news has made you ill; you arena at a' like yoursel'," he asked without much interest, "What bad news?"

"The news anent Katherine Van Heemskirk."

He had supposed it was some political disappointment, and at Katherine's name his pale face grew suddenly crimson.

"What of her?" he asked.

"Didna you hear? She ran awa' last night wi' Captain Hyde; stole awa' wi' him on 'The Dauntless.'"

"She would have the right to go with him, I have no doubt," said Neil with guarded calmness.

"Do you really think she was his wife?"

"If she went with him, I am sure she was." He dropped the words with an emphatic precision, and looked with gloomy eyes out of the window; gloomy, but steadfast, as if he were trying to face a future in which there was no hope. His mother did not observe him. She went on prattling as she filled the elder's cup, "If there had been any wedding worth the name o' the thing, we would hae been bidden to it. I dinna believe she is married."

"Are you sure that she sailed with Captain Hyde in 'The Dauntless,' or is it a pack of women's tales?"

"The news cam' wi' your fayther the elder," answered madam, much offended. "You can mak' your inquiries there if you think he's mair reliable than I am."

Neil looked at his father, and the elder said quietly, "I wouldna be positive anent any woman; the bad are whiles good, and the good are whiles bad. But there is nae doubt that Katherine has gone with Hyde; and I heard that the military at the 'King's Arms' have been drinking bumpers to Captain Hyde and his bride; and I know that Mrs. Gordon has said they were married lang syne, when Hyde couldna raise himsel' or put a foot to the ground. But Joanna told your mother she had neither seen nor heard tell o' book, ring, or minister; and, as I say, for mysel' I'll no venture a positive opinion, but I think the lassie is married to the man she's off an' awa' wi'."

"But if she isna?" persisted madam.

In a moment Neil let slip the rein in which he had been holding himself, and in a slow, intense voice answered, "I shall make it my business to find out. If Katherine is married, God bless her! If she is not, I will follow Hyde though it were around the world until I cleave his coward's heart in two." His passion grew stronger with its utterance. He pushed away his chair, and put down his cup so indifferently that it missed the table and fell with a crash to the floor.



"Oh, my cheeny, my cheeny! Oh, my bonnie cups that I hae used for forty years, and no' a piece broken afore!"

"Ah, weel, Janet," said the elder, "you shouldna badger an angry man when he's drinking from your best cups."

"I canna mend nor match it in the whole Province, Elder. Oh, my bonnie cup."

"I was thinking, Janet, o' Katherine's good name. If it is gane, it is neither to mend nor to match in the whole wide world. I'll awa' and see Joris and Lysbet. And put every cross thought where you'll never find them again, Janet; an tak' your good-will in your hands, and come wi' me. Lysbet will want to see you."

"Not her, indeed! I can tell you, Elder, that Lysbet was vera cool and queer wi' me yesterday."

"Come, Janet, dinna keep your good-nature in remnants. Let's hae enough to make a cloak big enough to cover a' bygone faults."

"I think, then, I ought to stay wi' Neil."

"Neil doesna want anybody near him. Leave him alane. Neil's a' right. Forty years syne I would hae broke my mother's cheeny, and drawn steel as quick as Neil did, if I heard a word against bonnie Janet Gordon." And the old man made his wife a bow; and madam blushed with pleasure, and went upstairs to put on her bonnet and India shawl.

"Woman, woman," meditated the smiling elder; "she is never too angry to be won wi' a mouthful o' sweet words, special if you add a bow or a kiss to them. My certie! when a husband can get his ain way at sic a sma' price, it's just wonderfu' he doesna buy it in perpetuity."

Joris was somewhat comforted by his old friend's sympathy; for the elder, in the hour of trial, knew how to be magnanimous. But the father's wound lay deeper than human love could reach. He was suffering from what all suffer who are wounded in their affections; for alas, alas, how poorly do we love even those whom we love most! We are not only bruised by the limitations of their love for us, but also by the limitations of our own love for them. And those who know what it is to be strong enough to wrestle, and yet not strong enough to overcome, will understand how the grief, the anger, the jealousy, the resentment, from which he suffered, amazed Joris; he had not realized before the depth and strength of his feelings.

He tried to put the memory of Katherine away, but he could not accomplish a miracle. The girl's face was ever before him. He felt her caressing fingers linked in his own; and, as he walked in his house and his garden, her small feet pattered beside him. For as there are in creation invisible bonds that do not break like mortal bonds, so also there are correspondences subsisting between souls, despite the separation of distance.

"I would forget Katherine if I could," he said to Dominie Van Linden; and the good man, bravely putting aside his private grief, took the hands of Joris in his own, and bending toward him, answered, "That would be a great pity. Why forget? Trust, rather, that out of sorrow God will bring to you joy."

"Not natural is that, Dominie. How can it be? I do not understand how it can be."

"You do not understand! Well, then, och mijn jongen, what matters comprehension, if you have faith? Trust, now, that it is well with the child."

But Joris believed it was ill with her; and he blamed not only himself, but every one in connection with Katherine, for results which he was certain might have been foreseen and prevented. Did he not foresee them? Had he not spoken plainly enough to Hyde and to Lysbet and to the child herself? He should have seen her to Albany, to her sister Cornelia. For he believed now that Lysbet had not cordially disapproved of Hyde; and as for Joanna, she had been far too much occupied with Batavius and her own marriage to care for any other thing. And one of his great fears was that Katherine also would forget her father and mother and home, and become a willing alien from her own people.

He was so wrapped up in his grief, that he did not notice that Bram was suffering also. Bram got the brunt of the world's wonderings and inquiries. People who did not like to ask Joris questions, felt no such delicacy with Bram. And Bram not only tenderly loved his sister: he hated with the unreasoning passion of youth the entire English soldiery. He made no exception now. They were the visible marks of a subjection which he was sworn, heart and soul, to oppose. It humiliated him among his fellows, that his sister should have fled with one of them. It gave those who envied and disliked him an opportunity of inflicting covert and cruel wounds. Joris could, in some degree, control himself; he could speak of the marriage with regret, but without passion; he had even alluded, in some cases, to Hyde's family and expectations. The majority believed that he was secretly a little proud of the alliance. But Bram was aflame with indignation; first, if the marriage were at all doubted; second, if it were supposed to be a satisfactory one to any member of the Van Heemskirk family.

As to the doubters, they were completely silenced when the next issue of the "New York Gazette" appeared; for among its most conspicuous advertisements was the following:

Married, Oct. 19, 1765, by the Rev. Mr. Somers, chaplain to his Excellency the Governor, Richard Drake Hyde, of Hyde Manor, Norfolk, son of the late Richard Drake Hyde, and brother of William Drake Hyde, Earl of Dorset and Hyde, to Katherine, the youngest daughter of Joris and Lysbet Van Heemskirk, of the city and province of New York.

Witnesses: NIGEL GORDON, H.M. Nineteenth Light Cavalry. GEORGE EARLE, H.M. Nineteenth Light Cavalry. ADELAIDE GORDON, wife of Nigel Gordon.

This announcement took every one a little by surprise. A few were really gratified; the majority perceived that it silenced gossip of a very enthralling kind. No one could now deplore or insinuate, or express sorrow or astonishment. And, as rejoicing with one's friends and neighbours soon becomes a very monotonous thing, Katherine Van Heemskirk's fine marriage was tacitly dropped. Only for that one day on which it was publicly declared, was it an absorbing topic. The whole issue of the "Gazette" was quickly bought; and then people, having seen the fact with their own eyes, felt a sudden satiety of the whole affair.

On some few it had a more particular influence. Hyde's brother officers held high festival to their comrade's success. To every bumper they read the notice aloud, as a toast, and gave a kind of national triumph to what was a purely personal affair. Joris read it with dim eyes, and then lit his long Gouda pipe and sat smoking with an air of inexpressible loneliness. Lysbet read it, and then put the paper carefully away among the silks and satins in her bottom drawer. Joanna read it, and then immediately bought a dozen copies and sent them to the relatives of Batavius, in Dordrecht, Holland.

Neil Sample read and re-read it. It seemed to have a fascination for him; and for more than an hour he sat musing, with his eyes fixed upon the fateful words. Then he rose and went to the hearth. There were a few sticks of wood burning upon it, but they had fallen apart. He put them together, and, tearing out the notice, he laid it upon them. It meant much more to Neil than the destruction of a scrap of paper, and he stood watching it, long after it had become a film of grayish ash.

Bram would not read it at all. He was too full of shame and trouble at the event; and the moments went as if they moved on lead. But the unhappy day wore away to its evening; and after tea he gathered a great nosegay of narcissus, and went to Isaac Cohen's. He did not "hang about the steps," as Joris in his temper had said. Miriam was not one of those girls who sit in the door to be gazed at by every passing man. He went into the store, and she seemed to know his footstep. He had no need to speak: she came at once from the mystery behind the crowded place into the clearer light. Plain and dark were her garments, and Bram would have been unable to describe her dress; but it was as fitting to her as are the green leaves of the rose-tree to the rose.

Their acquaintance had evidently advanced since that anxious evening when she had urged upon Bram the intelligence of the duel between Hyde and Neil Semple; for Bram gave her the flowers without embarrassment, and she buried her sweet face in their sweet petals, and then lifted it with a smile at once grateful and confidential. Then they began to talk of Katherine.



"She was so beautiful and so kind," said Miriam; "just a week since she passed here, with some violets in her hand; and, when she saw me, she ran up the steps, and said, 'I have brought them for you;' and she clasped my fingers, and looked so pleasantly in my face. If I had a sister, Bram, I think she would smile at me in the same way."

"Very grateful to you was Katharine. All you did about the duel, I told her. She knows her husband had not been alive to-day, but for you. O Miriam, if you had not spoken!"

"I should have had the stain of blood on my conscience. I did right to speak. My grandfather said to me, 'You did quite right, my dear.'"

Then Bram told her all the little things that had grieved him, and they talked as dear companions might talk; only, beneath all the common words of daily life, there was some subtile sweetness that made their voices low and their glances shy and tremulous.

It was not more than an hour ere Cohen came home. He looked quickly at the young people, and then stood by Bram, and began to talk courteously of passing events. Miriam leaned, listening, against a magnificent "apostle's cabinet" in black oak—one of those famous ones made in Nuremburg in the fifteenth century, with locks and hinges of hammered-steel work, and finely chased handles of the same material. Against its carved and pillared background her dark drapery fell in almost unnoticed grace; but her fair face and small hands, with the mass of white narcissus in them, had a singular and alluring beauty. She affected Bram as something sweetly supernatural might have done. It was an effort for him to answer Cohen; he felt as if it would be impossible for him to go away.

But the clock struck the hour, and the shop boy began to put up the shutters; and the old man walked to the door, taking Bram with him. Then Miriam, smiling her farewell, passed like a shadow into the darker shadows beyond; and Bram went home, wondering to find that she had cast out of his heart hatred, malice, fretful worry, and all uncharitableness. How could he blend them with thoughts of her? and how could he forget the slim, dark-robed figure, or the lovely face against the old black kas, crowned with its twelve sombre figures, or the white slender hands holding the white fragrant flowers?



XI.

"Each man's homestead is his golden milestone, Is the central point from which he measures Every distance Through the gateways of the world around him."

There are certain months in every life which seem to be full of fate, good or evil, for that life; and May was Katherine Hyde's luck month. It was on a May afternoon that Hyde had asked her love; it was on a May night she fled with him through the gray shadows of the misty river. Since then a year had gone by, and it was May once more,—an English May, full of the magic of the month; clear skies, and young foliage, and birds' songs, the cool, woody smell of wall-flowers, and the ethereal perfume of lilies.

In Hyde Manor House, there was that stir of preparation which indicates a departure. The house was before time; it had the air of early rising; the atmosphere of yesterday had not been dismissed, but lingered around, and gave the idea of haste and change, and departure from regular custom. It was, indeed, an hour before the usual breakfast-time; but Hyde and Katharine were taking a hasty meal together. Hyde was in full uniform, his sword at his side, his cavalry cap and cloak on a chair near him; and up and down the gravelled walk before the main entrance a groom was leading his horse.

"I must see what is the matter with Mephisto," said Hyde. "How he is snorting and pawing! And if Park loses control of him, I shall be greatly inconvenienced for both horse and time."

The remark was partially the excuse of a man who feels that he must go, and who tries to say the hard words in less ominous form. They both rose together,—Katherine bravely smiling away tears, and looking exceedingly lovely in her blue morning-gown trimmed with frillings of thread lace; and Hyde, gallant and tender, but still with the air of a man not averse to go back to life's real duty. He took Katherine in his arms, kissed away her tears, made her many a loving promise, and then, lifting his cap and cloak, left the room. The servants were lingering around to get his last word, and to wish him "God-speed;" and for a few minutes he stood talking to his groom and soothing Mephisto. Evidently he had quite recovered his health and strength; for he sprang very easily into the saddle, and, gathering the reins in his hand, kept the restive animal in perfect control.

A moment he stood thus, the very ideal of a fearless, chivalrous, handsome soldier; the next, his face softened to almost womanly tenderness, for he saw Katherine coming hastily through the dim hall and into the clear sunshine, and in her arms was his little son. She came fearlessly to his side, and lifted the sleeping child to him. He stooped and kissed it, and then kissed again the beautiful mother; and calling happily backward, "Good-by, my love; God keep you, love; good-by!" he gave Mephisto his own wild will, and was soon lost to sight among the trees of the park.



Katherine stood with her child in her arms, listening to the ever faint and fainter beat of Mephisto's hoofs. Her husband had gone back to duty, his furlough had expired, and their long, and leisurely honeymoon was over. But she was neither fearful nor unhappy. Hyde's friends had procured his exchange into a court regiment. He was only going to London, and he was still her lover. She looked forward with clear eyes as she said gratefully over to herself, "So happy am I! So good is my husband! So dear is my child! So fair and sweet is my home!"

And though to many minds Hyde Manor might seem neither fair nor sweet, Katherine really liked it. Perhaps she had some inherited taste for low lands, with their shimmer of water and patches of green; or perhaps the gentle beauty of the landscape specially fitted her temperament. But, at any rate, the wide brown stretches, dotted with lonely windmills and low farmhouses, pleased her. So also did the marshes, fringed with yellow and purple flags; and the great ditches, white with water-lilies; and the high belts of natural turf; and the summer sunshine, which over this level land had a white brilliancy to which other sunshine seemed shadow. Hyde had never before found the country endurable, except during the season when the marshes were full of birds; or when, at the Christmas holidays, the ice was firm as marble and smooth as glass, and the wind blowing fair from behind. Then he had liked well a race with the famous fen-skaters.

The Manor House was neither handsome nor picturesque, though its dark-red bricks made telling contrasts among the ivy and the few large trees surrounding it. It contained a great number of rooms, but none were of large proportions. The ceilings were low, and often crossed with heavy oak beams; while the floors, though of polished oak, were very uneven. Hyde had refurnished a few of the rooms; and the showy paperings and chintzes, the fine satin and gilding, looked oddly at variance with the black oak wainscots, the Elizabethan fireplaces, and the other internal decorations.

Katherine, however, had no sense of any incongruity. She was charmed with her home, from its big garrets to the great wine-bins in its underground cellars; and while Hyde wandered about the fens with his fishing-rod or gun, or went into the little town of Hyde to meet over a market dinner the neighbouring squires, she was busy arranging every room with that scrupulous nicety and cleanliness which had been not only an important part of her education, but was also a fundamental trait of her character. Indeed, no Dutch wife ever had the netheid, or passion for order and cleanliness, in greater perfection than Katherine. She might almost have come from Wormeldingen, "where the homes are washed and waxed, and the streets brushed and dusted till not a straw lies about, and the trees have a combed and brushed appearance, and do not dare to grow a leaf out of its place." So, then, the putting in order of this large house, with all its miscellaneous, uncared-for furniture, gave her a genuine pleasure.

Always pretty and sweet as a flower, always beautifully dressed, she yet directed, personally, her little force of servants, until room after room became a thing of beauty. It was her employment during those days on which Hyde was fishing or shooting; and it was not until the whole house was in exquisite condition that Katherine took him through his renovated dwelling. He was delighted, and not too selfish and indifferent to express his wonder and pleasure.

"Faith, Kate," he said, "you have made me a home out of an old lumber-house! I thought of taking you to London with me; but, upon my word, we had better stay at Hyde and beautify the place. I can run down whenever it is possible to get a few days off."

This idea gained gradually on both, and articles of luxury and adornment were occasionally added to the better rooms. The garden next fell under Katharine's care. "In sweet neglect," it no longer flaunted its beauties. Roses and stocks and tiger-lilies learned what boundaries of box meant; and if flowers have any sense of territorial rights, Katherine's must have found they were respected. Encroaching vines were securely confined within their proper limits, and grass that wandered into the gravel paths sought for itself a merciless destruction.



All such reforms, if they are not offensive, are stimulating and progressive. The stables, kennels, and park, as well as the land belonging to the manor, became of sudden interest to Hyde. He surprised his lawyer by asking after it, and by giving orders that in future the hay cut in the meadows should be cut for the Hyde stables. Every small wrong which he investigated and redressed increased his sense of responsibility; and the birth of his son made him begin to plan for the future in a way which brought not only great pleasure to Katherine, but also a comfortable self-satisfaction to his own heart.

Yet, even with all these favourable conditions, Katherine would not have been happy had the estrangement between herself and her parents continued a bitter or a silent one. She did not suppose they would answer the letter she had sent by the fisherman Hudde; she was prepared to ask, and to wait, for pardon and for a re-gift of that precious love which she had apparently slighted for a newer and as yet untested one. So, immediately after her arrival at Jamaica, Katherine wrote to her mother; and, without waiting for replies, she continued her letters regularly from Hyde. They were in a spirit of the sweetest and frankest confidence. She made her familiar with all her household plans and wifely cares; as room by room in the old manor was finished, she described it. She asked her advice with all the faith of a child and the love of a daughter; and she sent through her those sweet messages of affection to her father which she feared a little to offer without her mother's mediation.

But when she had a son, and when Hyde agreed that the boy should be named George, she wrote a letter to him. Joris found it one April morning on his desk, and it happened to come in a happy hour. He had been working in his garden, and every plant and flower had brought his Katherine pleasantly back to his memory. All the walks were haunted by her image. The fresh breeze of the river was full of her voice and her clear laughter. The returning birds, chattering in the trees above him, seemed to ask, "Where, then, is the little one gone?"

Her letter, full of love, starred all through with pet words, and wisely reminding him more of their own past happiness than enlarging on her present joy, made his heart melt. He could do no business that day. He felt that he must go home and tell Lysbet: only the mother could fully understand and share his joy. He found her cleaning the "Guilderland cup"—the very cup Mrs. Gordon had found Katherine cleaning when she brought the first love message, and took back that fateful token, her bow of orange ribbon. At that moment Lysbet's thoughts were entirely with Katherine. She was wondering whether Joris and herself might not some day cross the ocean to see their child. When she heard her husband's step at that early hour, she put down the cup in fear, and stood watching the door for his approach. The first glimpse of his face told her that he was no messenger of sorrow. He gave her the letter with a smile, and then walked up and down while she read it.

"Well, Joris, a beautiful letter this is. And thou has a grandson of thy own name—a little Joris. Oh, how I long to see him! I hope that he will grow like thee—so big and handsome as thou art, and also with thy good heart. Oh, the little Joris! Would God he was here!"

The face of Joris was happy, and his eyes shining; but he had not yet much to say. He walked about for an hour, and listened to Lysbet, who, as she polished her silver, retold him all that Katherine had said of her husband's love, and of his goodness to her. With great attention he listened to her description of the renovated house and garden, and of Hyde's purposes with regard to the estate. Then he sat down and smoked his pipe, and after dinner he returned to his pipe and his meditation. Lysbet wondered what he was considering, and hoped that it might be a letter of full forgiveness for her beloved Katherine.

At last he rose and went into the garden; and she watched him wander from bed to bed, and stand looking down at the green shoots of the early flowers, and the lovely inverted urns of the brave snowdrops. To the river and back again several times he walked; but about three o'clock he came into the house with a firm, quick step, and, not finding Lysbet in the sitting-room, called her cheerily. She was in their room upstairs, and he went to her.

"Lysbet, thinking I have been—thinking of Katherine's marriage. Better than I expected, it has turned out."

"I think that Katherine has made a good marriage—the best marriage of all the children."



"Dost thou believe that her husband is so kind and so prudent as she says?"

"No doubt of it I have."

"See, then: I will send to Katherine her portion. Cohen will give me the order on Secor's Bank in Threadneedle Street. It is for her and her children. Can I trust them with it?"

"Katherine is no waster, and full of nobleness is her husband. Write thou to him, and put it in his charge for Katherine and her children. And tell him in his honour thou trust entirely; and I think that he will do in all things right. Nothing has he asked of thee."

"To the devil he sent my dirty guilders, made in dirty trade. I have not forgot."

"Joris, the Devil speaks for a man in a passion. Keep no such words in thy memory."

"Lysbet?"

"What then, Joris?"

"The drinking-cup of silver, which my father gave us at our marriage,—the great silver one that has on it the view of Middleburg and the arms of the city. It was given to my great-grandfather when he was mayor of Middleburg. His name, also, was Joris. To my grandson shall I send it?"

"Oh, my Joris, much pleasure would thou give Katherine and me also! Let the little fellow have it. Earl of Dorset and Hyde he may be yet."

Joris blushed vividly, but he answered, "Mayor of New York he may be yet. That will please me best."

"Five grandsons hast thou, but this is the first Joris. Anna has two sons, but for his dead brothers Rysbaack named them. Cornelia has two sons; but for thee they called neither, because Van Dorn's father is called Joris, and with him they are great unfriends. And when Joanna's son was born, they called him Peter, because Batavius hath a rich uncle called Peter, who may pay for the name. So, then, Katherine's son is the first of thy grandchildren that has thy name. The dear little Joris! He has blue eyes too; eyes like thine, she says. Yes, I would to him give the Middleburg cup. William Newman, the jeweller, will pack it safely, and by the next ship thou can send it to the bankers thou spoke of. I will tell Katherine so. But thou, too, write her a letter; for little she will think of her fortune or of the cup, if thy love thou send not with them."

And Joris had done all that he purposed, and done it without one grudging thought or doubting word. The cup went, full of good-will. The money was given as Katherine's right, and was hampered with no restrictions but the wishes of Joris, left to the honour of Hyde. And Hyde was not indifferent to such noble trust. He fully determined to deserve it. As for Katherine, she desired no greater pleasure than to emphasize her reliance in her husband by leaving the money absolutely at his discretion. In fact, she felt a far greater interest in the Middleburg cup. It had always been an object of her admiration and desire. She believed her son would be proud to point it out and say, "It came from my mother's ancestor, who was mayor of Middleburg when that famous city ruled in the East India trade, and compelled all vessels with spice and wines and oils to come to the crane of Middleburg, there to be verified and gauged." She longed to receive this gift. She had resolved to put it between the baby fingers of little Joris as soon as it arrived. "A grand christening-cup it will be," she exclaimed, with childlike enthusiasm and Hyde kissed her, and promised to send it at once by a trusty messenger.



He was a little amused by her enthusiasm. The Hydes had much plate, old and new, and they were proud of its beauty and excellence, and well aware of its worth; but they were not able to judge of the value of flagons and cups and servers gathered slowly through many generations, every one representing some human drama of love or suffering, or some deed of national significance. Nearly all of Joris Van Heemskirk's silver was "storied:" it was the materialization of honour and patriotism, of self-denial or charity; and the silversmith's and engraver's work was the least part of the Van Heemskirk pride in it.

As Joris sat smoking that night, he thought over his proposal; and then for the first time it struck him that the Middleburg cup might have a peculiar significance and value to Bram. It cost him an effort to put his vague suspicions into words, because by doing so he seemed to give shape and substance to shadows; but when Lysbet sat down with a little sigh of content beside him, and said, "A happy night is this to us, Joris," he answered, "God is good; always better to us than we trust Him for. I want to say now what I have been considering the last hour,—some other cup we will send to the little Joris, for I think Bram will like to have the Middleburg cup best of all."

"Always Bram has been promised the Guilderland cup and the server that goes with it."

"That is the truth; but I will tell you something, Lysbet. The Middelburg cup was given by the Jews of Middleburg to my ancestor because great favours and protection he gave them when he was mayor of the city. Bram is very often with Miriam Cohen, and"—

Then Joris stopped, and Lysbet waited anxiously for him to finish the sentence; but he only puffed, puffed, and looked thoughtfully at the bowl of his pipe.

"What mean you, Joris?"

"I think that he loves her."

"Well?"

"That he would like to marry her."

"Many things that are impossible, man would like to do: that is most impossible of all."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it."

"Not impossible was it for Katherine to marry one not of her own race."

"In my mind it is not race so much as faith. Far more than race, faith claims."

"Hyde is a Lutheran."

"A Lutheran may also be a Christian, I hope, Joris."

"I judge no man, Lysbet. I have known Jews that were better Christians than some baptized in the name of Christ and John Calvin,—Jews who, like the great Jew, loved God, and did to their fellow-creatures as they wished to be done by. And if you had ever seen Miriam Cohen, you would not make a wonder that Bram loves her."

"Is she so fair?"

"A beautiful face and gracious ways she has. Like her the beloved Rachel must have been, I think. Why do you not stand with Bram as you stood with Katherine?"

"Little use it would be, Joris. To give consent in this matter would be a sacrifice refused. Be sure that Cohen will not listen to Bram; no, nor to you, nor to me, nor to Miriam. If it come to a question of race, more proud is the Jew of his race then even the Englishman or the Dutchman. If it come to a question of faith, if all the other faiths in the world die out, the Jew will hold to his own. Say to Bram, 'I am willing;' and Cohen will say to him, 'Never, never will I consent.' If you keep the 'Jew's cup' for Bram and Miriam, always you will keep it; yes, and they that live after you, too."

Why it is that certain trains of thought and feeling move to their end at the same hour, though that end affect a variety of persons, no one has yet explained. But there are undoubtedly currents of sympathy of whose nature and movements we are profoundly ignorant. Thus how often we think of an event just before some decisive action relating to it is made known to us! How often do we recall some friend just as we are about to see or hear from him! How often do we remember something that ought to be done, just at the last moment its successful accomplishment was possible to us!

And at the very hour Joris and Lysbet were discussing the position of their son with regard to Miriam Cohen, the question was being definitely settled at another point. For Joris was not the only person who had observed Bram's devotion to the beautiful Jewess. Cohen had watched him with close and cautious jealousy for many months; but he was far too wise to stimulate love by opposition, and he did not believe in half measures. When he defined Miriam's duty to her, he meant it to be in such shape as precluded argument or uncertainty; and for this purpose delay was necessary. Much correspondence with England had to take place, and the mails were then irregular. But it happened that, after some months of negotiation, a final and satisfactory letter had come to him by the same post as brought Katherine's letter to Joris Van Heemskirk.

He read its contents with a sad satisfaction, and then locked it away until the evening hours secured him from business interruption. Then he went to his grandchild. He found her sitting quietly among the cushions of a low couch. It seemed as if Miriam's thoughts were generally sufficient for her pleasure, for she was rarely busy. She had always time to sit and talk, or to sit and be silent. And Cohen liked best to see her thus,—beautiful and calm, with small hands dropped or folded, and eyes half shut, and mouth closed, but ready to smile and dimple if he decided to speak to her.

She looked so pretty and happy and careless that for some time he did not like to break the spell of her restful beauty. Nor did he until his pipe was quite finished, and he had looked carefully over the notes in his "day-book." Then he said in slow, even tones, "My child, listen to me. This summer my young kinsman Judah Belasco will come here. He comes to marry you. You will be a happy wife, my dear. He has moneys, and he has the power to make moneys; and he is a good young man. I have been cautious concerning that, my dear."

There was a long pause. He did not hurry her, but sat patiently waiting, with his eyes fixed upon the book in his hand.

"I do not want to marry, grandfather. I am so young. I do not know Judah Belasco."

"You shall have time, my dear. It is part of the agreement that he shall now live in New York. He is a rich young man, my dear. He is of the sephardim, as you are too, my dear. You must marry in your own caste; for we are of unmixed blood, faithful children of the tribe of Judah. All of our brethren here are Ashkenasem: therefore, I have had no rest until I got a husband fit for you, my dear. This was my duty, though I brought him from the end of the earth. It has cost me moneys, but I gave cheerfully. The thing is finished now, when you are ready. But you shall not be hurried, my dear."

"Father, I have been a good daughter. Do not make me leave you."

"You have been good, and you will be good always. What is the command?"

"Honor thy father and thy mother."

"And the promise?"

"Then long shall be thy days on the earth."

"And the vow you made, Miriam?"

"That I would never disobey or deceive you."

"Who have you vowed to?"

"The God of Israel."

"Will you lie unto Him?"

"I would give my life first."

"Now is the time to fulfil your vow. Put from your heart or fancy any other young man. Have you not thought of our neighbour, Bram Van Heemskirk?"

"He is good; he is handsome. I fear he loves me."

"You know not anything. If you choose a husband, or even a shoe, by their appearance, both may pinch you, my dear. Judah is of good stock. Of a good tree you may expect good fruit."

"Bram Van Heemskirk is also the son of a good father. Many times you have said it."

"Yes, I have said it. But Bram is not of our people. And if our law forbid us to sow different seeds at the same time in the same ground, or to graft one kind of fruit-tree on the stock of another, shall we dare to mingle ourselves with people alien in race and faith, and speech and customs? My dear, will you take your own way, or will you obey the word of the Lord?"

"My way cannot stand before His way."

"It is a hard thing for you, my dear. Your way is sweet to you. Offer it as a sacrifice; bind the sacrifice, even with cords, to the altar, if it be necessary. I mean, say to Bram Van Heemskirk words that you cannot unsay. Then there will be only one sorrow. It is hope and fear, and fear and hope, that make the heart sick. Be kind, and slay hope at once, my dear."

"If Judah had been my own choice, father"—

"Choice? My dear, when did you get wisdom? Do not parents choose for their children their food, dress, friends, and teachers? What folly to do these things, and then leave them in the most serious question of life to their own wisdom, or want of wisdom! Choice! Remember Van Heemskirk's daughter, and the sin and suffering her own choice caused."



"I think it was not her fault if two men quarrelled and fought about her."

"She was not wholly innocent. Miriam, make me not to remember the past. My eyes are old now; they should not weep any more. I have drunk my cup of sorrow to the lees. O Miriam, Miriam, do not fill it again!"

"God forbid! My father, I will keep the promise that I made you. I will do all that you wish."

Cohen bowed his head solemnly, and remained for some minutes afterward motionless. His eyes were closed, his face was as still as a painted face. Whether he was praying or remembering, Miriam knew not. But solitude is the first cry of the wounded heart, and she went away into it. She was like a child that had been smitten, and whom there was none to comfort. But she never thought of disputing her grandfather's word, or of opposing his will. Often before he had been obliged to give her some bitter cup, or some disappointment; but her good had always been the end in view. She had perfect faith in his love and wisdom. But she suffered very much; though she bore it with that uncomplaining patience which is so characteristic of the child heart—a patience pathetic in its resignation, and sublime in its obedience.

And it was during this hour of trial to Miriam that Joris was talking to Lysbet of her. It did him good to put his fears into words, for Lysbet's assurances were comfortable; and as it had been a day full of feeling, he was weary and went earlier to his room than usual. On the contrary, Lysbet was very wakeful. She carried her sewing to the candle, and sat down for an hour's work. The house was oppressively still; and she could not help remembering the days when it had been so different,—when Anna and Cornelia had been marriageable women, and Joanna and Katherine growing girls. All of them had now gone away from her. Only Bram was left, and she thought of him with great anxiety. Such a marriage as his father had hinted at filled her with alarm. She could neither conquer her prejudices nor put away her fears; and she tormented herself with imagining, in the event of such a misfortune, all the disagreeable and disapproving things the members of the Middle Kirk would have to say.

In the midst of her reflections, Bram returned. She had not expected him so early, but the sound of his feet was pleasant. He came in slowly; and, after some pottering, irritating delays, he pushed his father's chair back from the light, and with a heavy sigh sat down in it.

"Why sigh you so heavy, Bram? Every sigh still lower sinks the heart."

"A light heart I shall never have again, mother."

"You talk some foolishness. A young man like you! A quarrel with your sweetheart, is it? Well, it will be over as quick as a rainy day. Then the sunshine again."

"For me there is no hope like that. So quiet and shy was my love."

"Oh, indeed! Of all the coquettes, the quiet, shy ones are the worst."

"No coquette is Miriam Cohen. My love life is at the end, mother."

"When began it, Bram?"

"It was at the time of the duel. I loved her from the first moment. O mother, mother!"

"Does she not love you, Bram?"

"I think so: many sweet hours we have had together. My heart was full of hope."

"Her faith, Bram, should have kept you prudent."

"'In what church do you pray?' Love asks not such a question, and as for her race, I thought a daughter of Israel is the beloved of all the daughters of God. A blessing to my house she will bring."

"That is not what the world says, Bram. No, my son. It is thus, and like it: that God is angry with His people, and for that He has scattered them through all the nations of the earth."

"Such folly is that! To colonize, to 'take possession' of the whole earth, is what the men of Israel have always intended. Long before the Christ was born in Bethlehem, the Jews were scattered throughout every known country. I will say that to the dominie. It is the truth, and he cannot deny it."

"But surely God is angry with them."

"I see it not. If once He was angry, long ago He has forgiven His people. 'To the third and fourth generation' only is His anger. His own limit that is. Who have such blessings? The gold and the wine and the fruit of all lands are theirs. Their increase comes when all others' fail. God is not angry with them. The light of His smile is on the face of Miriam. He teaches her father how to traffic and to prosper. Do not the Holy Scriptures say that the blessing, not the anger, of the Lord maketh rich?"

"Well, then, my son, all this is little to the purpose, if she will not have thee for her husband. But be not easy to lose thy heart. Try once more."

"Useless it would be. Miriam is not one of those who say 'no' and then 'yes.'"

"Nearly two years you have known her. That was long to keep you in hope and doubt. I think she is a coquette."

"You know her not, mother. Very few words of love have I dared to say. We have been friends. I was happy to stand in the store and talk to Cohen, and watch her. A glance from her eyes, a pleasant word, was enough. I feared to lose all by asking too much."

"Then, why did you ask her to-night? It would have been better had your father spoken first to Mr. Cohen."

"I did not ask Miriam to-night. She spared me all she could. She was in the store as I passed, and I went in. This is what she said to me, 'Bram, dear Bram, I fear that you begin to love me, because I think of you very often. And my grandfather has just told me that I am promised to Judah Belasco, of London. In the summer he will come here, and I shall marry him.' I wish, mother, you could have seen her leaning against the black kas; for between it and her black dress, her face was white as death, and beautiful and pitiful as an angel's."

"What said you then?"

"Oh, I scarce know! But I told her how dearly I loved her, and I asked her to be my wife."



"And she said what to thee?"

"'My father I must obey. Though he told me to slay myself, I must obey him. By the God of Israel, I have promised it often.'"

"Was that all, Bram?"

"I asked her again and again. I said, 'Only in this one thing, Miriam, and all our lives after it we will give to him.' But she answered, 'Obedience is better than sacrifice, Bram. That is what our law teaches. Though I could give my father the wealth and the power of King Solomon, it would be worth less than my obedience.' And for all my pleading, at the last it was the same, 'I cannot do wrong; for many right deeds will not undo one wrong one.' So she gave me her hands, and I kissed them,—my first and last kiss,—and I bade her farewell; for my hope is over—I know that."

"She is a good girl. I wish that you had won her, Bram." And Lysbet put down her work and went to her son's side; and with a great sob Bram laid his head against her breast.

"As one whom his mother comforteth!" Oh, tender and wonderful consolation! It is the mother that turns the bitter waters of life into wine. Bram talked his sorrow over to his mother's love and pity and sympathy; and when she parted with him, long after the midnight, she said cheerfully, "Thou hast a brave soul, mijn zoon, mijn Bram; and this trouble is not all for thy loss and grief. A sweet memory will this beautiful Miriam be as long as thou livest; and to have loved well a good woman will make thee always a better man for it."



XII.

"The town's a golden, but a fatal, circle, Upon whose magic skirts a thousand devils, In crystal forms, sit tempting Innocence, And beckoning Virtue from its centre."

The trusting, generous letter which Joris had written to his son-in-law arrived a few days before Hyde's departure for London. With every decent show of pleasure and gratitude, he said, "It is an unexpected piece of good fortune, Katherine, and the interest of five thousand pounds will keep Hyde Manor up in a fine style. As for the principal, we will leave it at Secor's until it can be invested in land. What say you?"

Katherine was quite satisfied; for, though naturally careful of all put under her own hands, she was at heart very far from being either selfish or mercenary. In fact, the silver cup was at that hour of more real interest to her. It would be a part of her old home in her new home. It was connected with her life memories, and it made a portion of her future hopes and dreams. There was also something more tangible about it than about the bit of paper certifying to five thousand pounds in her name at Secor's Bank.

But Hyde knew well the importance of Katherine's fortune. It enabled him to face his relatives and friends on a very much better footing than he had anticipated. He was quite aware, too, that the simple fact was all that society needed. He expected to hear in a few days that the five thousand pounds had become fifty thousand pounds; for he knew that rumour, when on the boast, would magnify any kind of gossip, favourable or unfavourable. So he was no longer averse to meeting his former companions: even to them, a rich wife would excuse matrimony. And, besides, Hyde was one of those men who regard money in the bank as a kind of good conscience: he really felt morally five thousand pounds the better. Full of hope and happiness, he would have gone at a pace to suit his mood; but English roads at that date were left very much to nature and to weather, and the Norfolk clay in springtime was so deep and heavy that it was not until the third day after leaving that he was able to report for duty.

His first social visit was paid to his maternal grandmother, the dowager Lady Capel. She was not a nice old woman; in fact, she was a very spiteful, ill-hearted, ill-tempered old woman, and Hyde had always had a certain fear of her. When he landed in London with his wife, Lady Capel had fortunately been at Bath; and he had then escaped the duty of presenting Katherine to her. But she was now at her mansion in Berkeley Square, and her claims upon his attention could not be postponed; and, as she had neither eyes nor ears in the evenings for any thing but loo or whist, Hyde knew that a conciliatory visit would have to be made in the early part of the day.

He found her in the most careless dishabille, wigless and unpainted, and rolled up comfortably in an old wadded morning-gown that had seen years of snuffy service. But she had out-lived her vanity. Hyde had chosen the very hour in which she had nothing whatever to amuse her, and he was a very welcome interruption. And, upon the whole, she liked her grandson. She had paid his gambling-debts twice, she had taken the greatest interest in his various duels, and sided passionately with him in one abortive love-affair.

"Dick is no milksop," she would say approvingly, when told of any of his escapades; "faith, he has my spirit exactly! I have a great deal more temper than any one would believe me capable of"—which was not the truth, for there were few people who really knew her ladyship who ever felt inclined to doubt her capabilities in that direction.

So she heard the rattle of Hyde's sword, and the clatter of his feet on the polished stairs, with a good deal of satisfaction. "I have him here, and I shall do my best to keep him here," she thought. "Why should a proper young fellow like Dick bury himself alive in the fens for a Dutchwoman? In short, she has had enough, and too much, of him. His grandmother has a prior claim, I hope, and then Arabella Suffolk will help me. I foresee mischief and amusement.—Well, Dick, you rascal, so you have had to leave America! I expected it. Oh, sir, I have heard all about you from Adelaide! You are not to be trusted, either among men or women. And pray where is the wife you made such a fracas about? Is she in London with you?"

"No, madam: she preferred to remain at Hyde, and I have no happiness beyond her desire."

"Here's flame! Here's constancy! And you have been married a whole year! I am struck with admiration."

"A whole year—a year of divine happiness, I assure you."

"Lord, sir! You will be the laughing-stock of the town if you talk in such fashion. They will have you in the play-houses. Pray let us forget our domestic joys a little. I hear, however, that your divinity is rich."

"She is not poor; though if"—

"Though if she had been a beggar-girl you would have married her, rags and all. Swear to that, Dick, especially when she brings you fifty thousand pounds. I'm very much obliged to her; you can hardly, for shame, put your fingers in my poor purse now, sir. And you can make a good figure in the world; and as your cousin Arabella Suffolk is staying with me, you will be the properest gallant for her when Sir Thomas is at the House."

"I am at yours and cousin Arabella's service, grandmother."

"Exactly so, Captain; only no more quarrelling and fighting. Learn your catechism, or Dr. Watts, or somebody. Remember that we have now a bishop in the family. And I am getting old, and want to be at peace with the whole world, if you will let me."

Hyde laughed merrily. "Why, grandmother, such advice from you! I don't trust it. There never was a more perfect hater than yourself."

"I know, Dick. I used to say, 'Lord, this person is so bad, and that person is so bad, I hate them!' But at last I found out that every one was bad: so I hate nobody. One cannot take a sword and run the whole town through. I have seen some very religious people lately; and you will find me very serious, and much improved. Come and go as you please, Dick: Arabella and you can be perfectly happy, I dare say, without minding me."

"What is the town doing now?"

"Oh, balls and dances and weddings and other follies! Thank the moon, men and women never get weary of these things!"

"Then you have not ceased to enjoy them, I hope."

"I still take my share. Old fools will hobble after young ones. I ride a little, and visit a little, and have small societies quite to my taste. And I have my four kings and aces; that is saying everything. I want you to go to all the diversions, Dick; and pray tell me what they say of me behind my back. I like to know how much I annoy people."

"I shall not listen to anything unflattering, I assure you."

"La, Dick, you can't fight a rout of women and men about your grandmother! I don't want you to fight, not even if they talk about Arabella and you. It is none of their business; and as for Sir Thomas Suffolk, he hears nothing outside the House, and he thinks every Whig in England is watching him—a pompous old fool!"

"Oh, indeed! I had an idea that he was a very merry fellow."

"Merry, forsooth! He was never known to laugh. There is a report that he once condescended to smile, but it was at chess. As for fighting, he wouldn't fight a dog that bit him. He is too patriotic to deprive his country of his own abilities. No, Dick; I really do not see any quarrel ahead, unless you make it."

"I shall think of my Kate when I am passionate, and so keep the peace."

"'I shall think of my Kate.' Grant me patience with all young husbands. They ought to remain in seclusion until the wedding-fever is over. By the Lord Harry! If Jack Capel had spoken of me in such fashion, I would have given him the best of reasons for running some pretty fellow through the heart. Hush! Here comes Arabella, and I am anxious you should make a figure in her eyes."

Arabella came in very quietly, but she seemed to take possession of the room as she entered it. She had a bright, piquant face, a tall, graceful form, and that air of high fashion which is perhaps quite as captivating.

She was "delighted to meet cousin Dick. Oh, indeed, you have been the town talk!" she said, with an air of attention very flattering. "Such a passionate encounter was never heard of. The clubs were engaged with it for a week. I was told that Lord Paget and Sir Henry Dutton came near fighting it over themselves. Was it really about a bow of orange ribbon? And did you wear it over your heart? And did the Scotchman cut it off with his sword? And did you run him through the next moment? There were the most extraordinary accounts of the affair, and of the little girl with the unpronounceable Dutch name who"—

"Who is now my wife, Lady Suffolk."

"Certainly, we heard of that also. How romantic! The secret marriage, the midnight elopement, and the man-of-war waiting down the river with a broadside ready for any boat that attempted to stop you."

"Oh, my lady, that is the completest nonsense!"

"Say 'cousin Arabella,' if you please. Has not grandmother told you that I, not the Dutch girl, ought to have been your wife? It was all arranged years ago, sir. You have disappointed grandmother; as for me, I have consoled myself with Sir Thomas."

"Yes, indeed," said Lady Capel; "though Dick was entirely out of the secret of the match, my son Will and I had agreed upon it. I don't know what Will thinks of a younger son like Dick choosing for himself."

Then Arabella made Hyde a pretty, mocking courtesy, and he could not help looking with some interest at the woman who might have been his wife. The best of men, and the best of husbands, are liable to speculate a little under such circumstances, and in fancy to put themselves into a position they have probably no wish in reality to fill. She noticed his air of consideration; and, with a toss of her handsome head, she spread out all her finery. "You see," she said, "I am dressed so as to make a tearing show." She wore a white poudesoy gown, embroidered with gold, and the prettiest high-heeled satin slippers, and a head-dress of wonderful workmanship. "For I have been at a concert of music, cousin Dick, and heard two overtures of Mr. Handel's and a sonata by Corella, done by the very best hands."



"And, pray, whom did you see there, my dear? and what were they talking about?"

"Of all people, grandmother, I saw Lady Susan Rye and the rest of her sort; and they talked of nothing else but the coming mask at Ranelagh's. Cousin, I bespeak you for my service. I am going as a gypsy, for it will give me the opportunity of telling the truth. In my own character, I rarely do it: nothing is so impolite. But I have a prodigious regard for truth; and at a mask I give myself the pleasure of saying all the disagreeable things that I owe to my acquaintances."

Katherine was almost ignored; and Hyde did not feel any desire to bring even her name into such a mocking, jeering, perfectly heartless conversation. He was content to laugh, and let the hour go past in such flim-flams of criticism and persiflage. He remembered when he had been one of the units in such a life, and he wondered if it were possible that he could ever drift back into it. For even as he sat there, with the memory of his wife and child in his heart, he felt the light charm of Lady Arabella's claim upon him, and all the fascination of that gay, thoughtless animal life which appeals so strongly to the selfish instincts and appetites of youth.

He had a plate of roast hare and a goblet of wine, and the ladies had chocolate and rout cakes; and he ate and drank, and laughed, and enjoyed their bright, ill-natured pleasantry, as men enjoy such piquant morsels. Thus a couple of hours passed; and then it became evident, from the pawing and snorting outside, that Mephisto's patience was quite exhausted. Hyde went to the window, and looked into the square. His orderly was vainly endeavoring to soothe the restless animal; and he said, "Mephisto will take no excuse, cousin, and I find myself obliged to leave you." But he went away in an excitement of hope and gay anticipations; and, with a sharp rebuke to the unruly animal, he vaulted into the saddle with soldierly grace and rapidity. A momentary glance upward showed him Lady Capel and Lady Suffolk at the window, watching him; the withered old woman in her soiled wrappings, the youthful beauty in all the bravery of her white and gold poudesoy. In spite of Mephisto's opposition, he made them a salute; and then, in a clamour of clattering hoofs, he dashed through the square.

"That is the man you ought to have married Arabella," said Lady Capel, as she watched the young face at her side, which had suddenly become pensive and dreamy: "you would have been a couple for the world to look at."

"Oh, indeed, you are mistaken, grandmother! Sir Thomas is an admirable husband—blind and deaf to all I do, as a good husband ought to be. And as for Dick, look at him—bowing and smiling, and ready to do me any service, while the girl he nearly died for is quite forgotten."

"Upon my word, you wrong Dick. His love for that woman is beyond everything. I wish it wasn't. What right had she to come into our family, and spoil plans and projects made before she was born. I should clearly love to play her her own card back. And I must say, Arabella, that you seem to care very little about your own wrongs."

"Oh, I am by no means certified that the woman has wronged me! I don't think I should have loved Dick, in any case."

"Ha!" Lady Capel looked in her granddaughter's musing face, and then, with a chuckle, hobbled to the bell and rang for her maid. "You are very prudent, child, but I am not one that any woman can deceive. I know all the tricks of the sex. Oh, heavens! what a grand thing to be two and twenty, with a kind husband to manage, and lovers bowing and begging at your shoe-ties! Well, well, I had my day; and, thank the fools, I did some mischief in it! Yes, there were eight duels fought for me; and while Somers and Scrope were wetting their swords in the quarrel, I was dancing with Jack Capel. Jack told me that night he would make me marry him; and when I slapped his cheek with my fan, he took my hands in a rage, and swore I should do it that hour. And, faith, he mastered me! Your grandfather Capel had a dreadful temper, Arabella."

"I have heard that Cousin Dick Hyde has a temper too."

"Dick is vain; and you can make a vain man stand on his head, or go down on his knees, if you only vow that he performs the antics better than any other human creature. The town will fling itself at Dick Hyde's feet, and Dick will fling himself at yours. Mind what I say; my prophecies always come true, Arabella, for I never expect sinners to be saints, my dear."

And during the next six months Lady Capel found plenty of opportunities for complimenting herself upon her own penetration. Society made an idol of Capt. Hyde; and if he was not at Lady Arabella's feet, he was certainly very constantly at her side. As to his marriage, it was a topic of constant doubt and dispute. The clubs betted on the subject. In the ball-rooms and the concert-rooms, the ladies positively denied it; and Lady Arabella's smile and shrug were of all opinions the most unsatisfactory and bewildering. Some, indeed, admitted the marriage, but averred, with a meaning emphasis, that madam was on the proper side of the Atlantic. Others were certain that Hyde had brought his wife to England, but felt himself obliged, on account of her great beauty, to keep her away from the conquering heroes of London society. It was a significant index to Hyde's real character, that not one of his associates ever dared to be familiar enough to ask him for the truth on a question so delicately personal.

"Hyde is exactly the man to invite me to meet him in Marylebone Fields for the answer," said a young officer, who had been urged to make inquiries because he was on familiar terms with his comrade. "If it comes to a matter of catechism, gentlemen, I'll bet ten to one that none of you ask him two consecutive questions regarding the American lady."

And perhaps many husbands may be able to understand a fact which to the general world seems beyond satisfactory explanation. Hyde loved his wife, loved her tenderly and constantly; he felt himself to be a better man whenever he thought of her and his little son, and he thought of them very frequently; and yet his eyes, his actions, the tones of his voice, daily led his cousin, Lady Suffolk, to imagine herself the empress of his heart and life. Nor was it to her alone that he permitted this affectation of love. He found beauty, wherever he met it, provocative of the same apparent devotion. There were a dozen men in his own circle who hated him with all the sincerity that jealousy gives to dislike and envy; there were a score of women who believed themselves to have private tokens of Hyde's special admiration for them.

Unfortunately, his military duties were only on very rare occasions any restraint to him. His days were mainly spent in dangling after Lady Suffolk and other fair dames. It was auctions at Christie's, and morning concerts, and afternoon rides and plays, and dinners and balls and masks at Ranelagh's. It was sails down the river to Richmond, and trips to Sadler's Wells, and one perpetual round of flirting and folly, of dressing and dancing and dining and gaming.



And it must be remembered that the English women of that day were such as England may well hope never to see again. They had little education: many very great ladies could hardly read and spell properly. Their sole accomplishments were dressing and embroidery; the ability to make a few delicate dishes for the table, and scents and pomade for the toilet. In the higher classes they married for money or position, and gave themselves up to intrigue. They drank deeply; they played high; they very seldom went to church, for Sunday was the fashionable day for all kinds of frivolity and amusement. And as the men of any generation are just what the women make them, England never had sons so profligate, so profane and drunken. The clubs, especially Brooke's, were the nightly scenes of indescribable orgies. Gambling alone was their serious occupation; duels were of constant occurrence.

Such a life could not be lived except at frightful and generally ruinous expense. Hyde was soon embarrassed. His pay was small and uncertain and the allowance which his brother William added to it, in order that the heir-apparent to the earldom might live in becoming style, had not been calculated on the squandering basis of Hyde's expenditures. Toward Christmas bills began to pour in, creditors became importunate, and, for the first time in his life, creditors really troubled him. Lady Capel was not likely to pay his debts any more. The earl, in settling Hyde's American obligations, had warned him against incurring others, and had frankly told him he would permit him to go to jail rather than pay such wicked and foolish bills for him again. The income from Hyde Manor had never been more than was required for the expenses of the place; and the interest on Katherine's money had gone, though he could not tell how. He was destitute of ready cash, and he foresaw that he would have to borrow some from Lady Capel or some other accommodating friend.

He returned to barracks one Sunday afternoon, and was moodily thinking over these things, when his orderly brought him a letter which had arrived during his absence. It was from Katherine. His face flushed with delight as he read it, so sweet and tender and pure was the neat epistle. He compared it mentally with some of the shameless scented billet-doux he was in the habit of receiving; and he felt as if his hands were unworthy to touch the white wings of his Katherine's most womanly, wifely message. "She wants to see me. Oh, the dear one! Not more than I want to see her. Fool, villain, that I am! I will go to her. Katherine! Kate! My dear little Kate!" So he ejaculated as he paced his narrow quarters, and tried to arrange his plans for a Christmas visit to his wife and child.

First he went to his colonel's lodging, and easily obtained two weeks' absence; then he dressed carefully, and went to his club for dinner. He had determined to ask Lady Capel for a hundred pounds; and he thought it would be the best plan to make his request when she was surrounded by company, and under the pleasurable excitement of a winning rubber. And if the circumstances proved adverse, then he could try his fortune in the hours of her morning retirement.

The mansion in Berkeley Square was brilliantly lighted when he approached it. Chairs and coaches were waiting in lines of three deep; coachmen and footmen quarrelling, shouting, talking; link-boys running here and there in search of lost articles or missing servants. But the hubbub did not at that time make his blood run quicker, or give any light of expectation to his countenance; for his heart and thoughts were near a hundred miles away.

Sunday night was Lady Capel's great card-night, and the rooms were full of tables surrounded by powdered and painted beauties intent upon the game and the gold. The odour of musk was everywhere, and the sound of the tapping of gold snuff-boxes, and the fluttering of fans, and the sharp, technical calls of the gamesters, and the hollow laughter of hollow hearts. There was a hired singing-girl with a lute at one end of the room, babbling of Cupid and Daphne, and green meadow and larks. But she was poorly dressed and indifferent looking; and she sang with a sad, mechanical air, as if her thoughts were far off. Hyde would have passed her without a glance; but, as he approached, she broke her love-ditty in two, and began to sing, with a meaning look at him,—

"They say there is a happy land, Where husbands never prove untrue; Where lovely maids may give their hearts, And never need the gift to rue; Where men can make and keep a vow, And wives are never in despair. I'm very fond of seeing sights— Pray tell me, how can I get there?"

The question seemed so directly addressed to Hyde that he hesitated a moment, and looked at the girl, who then with a mocking smile continued,—

"They say there really is a land, Where husbands never are untrue, Where wives are always beautiful, And the old love is always new. I've asked the wise to tell me how A loving woman could get there; And this is what they say to me,— 'If you that happy land would see, There's only one way to get there: Go straight along the crooked lane, And all around the square.'"

The scornful little song followed him, and conveyed a certain meaning to his mind. The girl must have taken her cue from the gossip of those who passed her to and fro. He burned with indignation, not for himself, but for his sweet, pure Katherine. He was determined that the world should in the future know that he held her peerless among women. In this half-aggressive mood he approached Lady Capel. She had been unfortunate all the evening, and was not amiable. As he stood behind her chair, Lord Leffham asked,—

"What think you, Hyde, of a party at picquet?"

"Oh, indeed, my lord, you are too much for me!"

"I will give you three points." Then, calling a footman, "Here, fellow, get cards."

Lady Capel flung her own down. "No, no, Leffham. Spare my grandson: there are bigger fish here. Dick, I am angry at you. I have a mind to banish you for a month."

"I am going to Norfolk for two weeks, madam."



"That will do. It is a worse punishment than I should have given you. Norfolk! There is only one word between it and the plantations. At this time of the year, it is a clay pudding full of villages. Give me your arm, Dick; I shall play no more until my luck turns again. Losing cards are dull company indeed."

"I am very sorry that you have been losing. I came to ask for the loan of a hundred pounds, grandmother."

"No, sir, I will not lend you a hundred pounds; nor am I in the humour to do anything else you desire."

"I make my apology for the request. I ought to have asked Katherine."

"No, sir, you ought not to have asked Katherine. You ought to take what you want. Jack Capel took every shilling of my fortune and neither said 'by your leave' nor 'thank you.' Did the Dutchman tie the bag too close?"

"Councillor Van Heemskirk left it open, in my honour. When I am scoundrel enough to touch it, I shall not come and see you at all, grandmother."

"Upon my word, a very pretty compliment! Well, sir, I'll pay you a hundred pounds for it. When do you start?"

"To-morrow morning."

"Make it afternoon, and take care of me as far as your aunt Julia's. The duke is of the royal bed-chamber this month, and I am going to see my daughter while he is away. It will make him supremely wretched at court to know that I am in his house. So I am going there, and I shall take care he knows it."

"I have heard a great deal of his new house."

"A play-house kind of affair, Dick, I assure you,—all in the French style; gods and goddesses above your head, and very badly dressed nymphs all around, and his pedigree on every window, and his coat of arms on the very stairs. I have the greatest satisfaction in treading upon them, I assure you."

"Why do you take the trouble to go? It can give you no pleasure."

"Imagine the true state of things, Dick. The duke is at court—say he is holding the royal gold wash-basin; but in the very sunshine of King George's smile, he is thinking, 'That snuffy old woman is lounging in my white and gilt satin chairs, and handling all my Chinese curiosities, and asking if every hideous Hindoo idol is a fresh likeness of me.' I am always willing to take some trouble to give pleasure to the people I like; I will gladly go to any amount of trouble to annoy the people I hate as cordially as I hate my good, rich, noble son-in-law, the great Duke of Exmouth."

"Will you play again?"

"No; I lost seventy pounds to-night."

"I protest, grandmother, that such high stakes go not with amusement. People come here, not for civility, but for the chance of money."

"Very well, sir. Money! It is the only excuse for card-playing. All the rest is sinning without temptation. But, Dick, put on the black coat to preach in,—why do they wear black to preach in?—and I am not in a humour for a sermon. Come to-morrow at one o'clock; we shall reach Julia's before dinner. And I dare say you want money to-night. Here are the keys of my desk. In the right-hand drawer are some rouleaus of fifty pounds each. Take two."



The weather, as Lady Capel said, was "so very Decemberish" that the roads were passably good, being frozen dry and hard; and on the evening of the third day Hyde came in sight of his home. His heart warmed to the lonely place; and the few lights in its windows beckoned him far more pleasantly than the brilliant illuminations of Vauxhall or Almacks, or even the cold splendours of royal receptions. He had given Katherine no warning of his visit—partly because he had a superstitious feeling about talking of expected joys (he had noticed that when he did so they vanished beyond his grasp); partly because love, like destiny, loves surprises; and he wanted to see with his own eyes, and hear with his own ears, the glad tokens of her happy wonder.

So he rode his horse upon the turf, and, seeing a light in the stable, carried him there at once. It was just about the hour of the evening meal, and the house was brighter than it would have been a little later. The kitchen fire threw great lustres across the brick-paved yard; and the blinds in Katherine's parlour were undrawn, and its fire and candle-light shone on the freshly laid tea-table, and the dark walls gleaming with bunches of holly and mistletoe. But she was not there. He only glanced inside the room, and then, with a smile on his face, went swiftly upstairs. He had noticed the light in the upper windows, and he knew where he would find his wife. Before he reached the nursery, he heard Katherine's voice. The door was a little open, and he could see every part of the charming domestic scene within the room. A middle-aged woman was quietly putting to rights the sweet disorder incident to the undressing of the baby. Katherine had played with it until they were both a little flushed and weary; and she was softly singing to the drowsy child at her breast.

It was a very singular chiming melody, and the low, sweet, tripping syllables were in a language quite unknown to him. But he thought that he had never heard music half so sweet and tender; and he listened to it, and watched the drowsy, swaying movements of the mother, with a strange delight,—

"Trip a trop a tronjes, De varkens in de boonjes, De keojes in de klaver, De paardeen in de haver, De eenjes in de waterplass, So groot mijn kleine Joris wass."

Over and over, softer and slower, went the melody. It was evident that the boy was asleep, and that Katherine was going to lay him in his cradle. He watched her do it; watched her gently tuck in the cover, and stand a moment to look down at the child. Then with a face full of love she turned away, smiling, and quite unconsciously came toward him on tiptoes. With his face beaming, with his arms opened, he entered; but with such a sympathetic understanding of the sweet need of silence and restraint that there was no alarm, no outcry, no fuss or amazement. Only a whispered "Katherine," and the swift rapture of meeting hearts and lips.



XIII.

"Death asks for no man's leave, But lifts the latch, and enters, and sits down."

The great events of most lives occur in epochs. A certain period is marked by a succession of important changes, but that ride of fortune, be it good or ill, culminates, recedes, goes quite out, and leaves life on a level beach of commonplaces. Then, sooner or later, the current of affairs turns again; sometimes with a calm, irresistible flow, sometimes in a tidal wave of sudden and overwhelming strength. After Hyde's and Katherine's marriage, there was a long era noticeable only for such vicissitudes as were incident to their fortune and position. But in May, A.D. 1774, the first murmur of the returning tide of destiny was heard. Not but what there had been for long some vague and general expectation of momentous events which would touch many individual lives; but this May night, a singular prescience of change made Hyde restless and impatient.

It was a dull, drizzling evening; and there was an air of depression in the city, to which he was unusually sensitive. For the trouble between England and her American Colonies was rapidly culminating; and party feeling ran high, not only among civilians, but throughout the royal regiments. Recently, also, a petition had been laid before the king from the Americans then resident in London, praying him not to send troops to coerce his subjects in America; and, when Hyde entered his club, some members were engaged in an angry altercation on this subject.

"The petition was flung upon the table, as it ought to have been," said Lord Paget.

"You are right," replied Mr. Hervey; "they ought to petition no longer. They ought now to resist. Mr. Dunning said in the House last night that the tone of the Government to the Colonies was, 'Resist, and we will cut your throats: acquiesce, and we will tax you.'"

"A kind of 'stand and deliver' government," remarked Hyde, whistling softly.

Lord Paget turned upon him with hardly concealed anger. "Captain, you, sir, wear the king's livery."

"I give the king my service: my thoughts are my own. And, faith, Lord Paget, it is my humour to utter them when and how I please!"

"Patience, gentlemen," returned Mr. Hervey. "I think, my lord, we may follow our leaders. The Duke of Richmond spoke warmly for Boston last night. 'The Bostonians are punished without a hearing,' he said; 'and if they resist punishment, I wish them success.' Are they not Englishmen, and many of them born on English soil? When have Englishmen submitted to oppression? Neither king, lords, nor commons can take away the rights of the people. It is past a doubt, too, that his Majesty, at the levee last night, laughed when he said he would just as lief fight the Bostonians as the French. I heard this speech was received with a dead silence, and that great offence was given by it."

"I think the king was right," said Paget passionately. "Rebellious subjects are worse than open enemies like the French."

"My lord, you must excuse me if I do not agree with your opinions. Was the king right to give a government to the Canadians at this precise time? What can his Protestant North-American subjects think, but that he designs the hundred thousand Catholics of Canada against their liberties? It is intolerable; and the king was mobbed this afternoon in the park, on the matter. As for the bishops who voted the Canada bill, they ought to be unfrocked."

"Mr. Hervey, I beg to remind you that my uncle, who is of the see of St. Cuthbert, voted for it."

"Oh, it is notorious that all the English bishops, excepting only Dr. Shipley, voted for war with America! I hear that they anticipate an hierarchy there when the country is conquered. And the fight has begun at home, for Parliament is dissolved on the subject."

"It died in the Roman-Catholic faith," laughed Hyde, "and left us a rebellion for a legacy."

"Captain Hyde, you are a traitor."

"Lord Paget, I deny it. My loyalty does not compel me to swear by all the follies and crimes of the Government. My sword is my country's; but I would not for twenty kings draw it against my own countrymen,"—then, with a meaning glance at Lord Paget and an emphatic touch of his weapon,—"except in my own private quarrel. And if this be treason, let the king look to it. He will find such treason in every regiment in England. They say he is going to hire Hessians: he will need them for his American business, for he has no prerogative to force Englishmen to murder Englishmen."

"I would advise you to be more prudent, Captain Hyde, if it is in your power."

"I would advise you to mind your own affairs, Lord Paget."

"It is said that you married an American."

"If you are perfectly in your senses, my lord, leave my affairs alone."

"For my part, I never believed it; and now that Lady Suffolk is a widow, with revenues, possibly you may"—

"Ah, you are jealous, I perceive!" and Hyde laughed scornfully, and turned on his heel as if to go upstairs.

Lord Paget followed, and laid his hand upon Hyde's arm.

"Hands off, my lord. Hands off all that belongs to me. And I advise you also to cease your impertinent attentions to my cousin, Lady Suffolk."

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Hervey, "this is no time for private quarrels; and, Captain, here is a fellow with a note for you. It is my Lady Capel's footman, and he says he comes in urgent speed."

Hyde glanced at the message. "It is a last command, Mr. Harvey; and I must beg you to say what is proper for my honour to Lord Paget. Lady Capel is at the death-point, and to her requests I am first bounden."

It was raining hard when he left the club, a most dreary night in the city. The coach rattled through the muddy streets, and brought, as it went along, many a bored, heavy countenance to the steaming windows, to watch and to wonder at its pace. Lady Capel had been death-stricken while at whist, and she had not been removed from the parlour in which she had been playing her last game. She was stretched upon a sofa in the midst of the deserted tables, yet covered with scattered cards and half-emptied tea-cups. Only Lady Suffolk and a physician were with her; though the corridor was full of terrified, curious servants, gloating not unkindly over such a bit of sensation in their prosaic lives.

At this hour it was evident that, above everything in the world, the old lady had loved the wild extravagant grandson, whose debts she had paid over and over, and whom she had for years alternately petted and scolded.

"O Dick," she whispered, "I've got to die! We all have. I've had a good time, Dick."

"Shall I go for cousin Harold? I can bring him in an hour."

"No, no. I want no priests; no better than we are, Dick. Harold is a proud sinner; Lord, what a proud sinner he is!" Then, with a glint of her usual temper, "He'd snub the twelve apostles if he met them without mitres. No priests, Dick. It is you I want. I have left you eight thousand pounds—all I could save, Dick. Everything goes back to William now; but the eight thousand pounds is yours. Arabella is witness to it. Dick, Dick, you will think of me sometimes?"