Amelia E. Barr - The Bow of Orange Ribbon

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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.

[Illustration: Plain and dark were her garments]

"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?

[Illustration: Tail-piece]

[Illustration: Chapter heading]

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.

[Illustration: Katherine stood with her child in her arms]

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.

[Illustration: The garden next fell under Katherine's care]

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."

[Illustration: "Thou has a grandson of thy own name"]

"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.

[Illustration: Plate old and new]

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.

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