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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."

[Illustration: "Make me not to remember the past"]

"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."

[Illustration: With a great sob Bram laid his head against her breast]

"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."

[Illustration: Chapter heading]




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."

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