The Bow of Orange Ribbon Part 22

"If one word I could send them! They suspect me not. They think you are gone. It will kill my father."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I will go with you, Richard"]

"You shall write to them on the s.h.i.+p. There are a dozen fis.h.i.+ng-boats near it. We will send the letter by one of them. They will get it early in the morning. Sweet Kate, come. Here is the boat. 'The Dauntless' lies down the bay, and we have a long pull. My wife, do you need more persuasion?"

He released her from his embrace with the words, and stood holding her hands, and looking into her face. No woman is insensible to a certain kind of authority; and there was fascination as well as power in Hyde's words and manner, emphasized by the splendour of his uniform, and the air of command that seemed to be a part of it.

"It is for you to decide, Katherine. The boat is here. Even I must obey or disobey orders. Will you not go with me, your husband, to love and life and honour; or shall I stay with you, for disgrace and death? For from you I will not part again."

She had no time to consider how much truth there was in this desperate statement. The boat was waiting. Richard was wooing her consent with kisses and entreaties. Her own soul urged her, not only by the joy of his presence, but by the memory of the anguish she had endured that day in the terror of his desertion. From the first moment she had hesitated; therefore, from the first moment she had yielded. She clung to her husband's arm, she lifted her face to his, she said softly, but clearly, "I will go with you, Richard. With you I will go. Where to, I care not at all."

They stepped into the boat, and Hyde said, "Oars." Not a word was spoken. He held her within his left arm, close to his side, and partially covered with his military cloak. It was the boat belonging to the commander of "The Dauntless," and the six sailors manning it sent the light craft flying like an arrow down the bay. All the past was behind her. She had done what was irrevocable. For joy or for sorrow, her place was evermore at her husband's side. Richard understood the decision she was coming to; knew that every doubt and fear had vanished when her hand stole into his hand, when she slightly lifted her face, and whispered, "Richard."

They were practically alone upon the misty river; and Richard answered the tender call with sweet, impa.s.sioned kisses; with low, lover-like, encouraging words; with a silence that thrilled with such soft beat and subsidence of the spirit's wing, as--

"When it feels, in cloud-girt wayfaring, The breath of kindred plumes against its feet."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Tail-piece]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Chapter heading]

X.

"_Good people, how they wrangle!

The manners that they never mend, The characters they mangle!

They eat and drink, and scheme and plod, And go to church on Sunday; And many are afraid of G.o.d, And some of Mrs. Grundy_."

During that same hour Joris was in the town council. There had been a stormy and prolonged session on the Quartering Act. "To little purpose have we compelled the revocation of the Stamp Act," he cried, "if the Quartering Act upon us is to be forced. We want not English soldiers here. In our homes why should we quarter them?"

All the way home he was asking himself the question; and, when he found Dominie Van Linden talking to Lysbet, he gladly discussed it over again with him. Lysbet sat beside them, knitting and listening. Until after nine o'clock Joris did not notice the absence of his daughter. "She went to Joanna's," said Lysbet calmly. No fear had yet entered her heart. Perhaps she had a vague suspicion that Katherine might also go to Mrs. Gordon's, and she was inclined to avoid any notice of the lateness of the hour. If it were even ten o'clock when she returned, Lysbet intended to make no remarks. But ten o'clock came, and the dominie went, and Joris suddenly became anxious about Katherine.

His first anger fell upon Bram. "He ought to have been at home. Then he could have gone for his sister. He is not attentive enough to Katherine; and very fond is he of hanging about Miriam Cohen's doorstep."

"What say you, Joris, about Miriam Cohen?"

"I spoke in my temper."

He would not explain his words, and Lysbet would not worry him about Katherine. "To Joanna's she went, and Batavius is in Boston. Very well, then, she has stayed with her sister."

Still, in her own heart there was a certain uneasiness. Katherine had never remained all night before without sending some message, or on a previous understanding to that effect. But the absence of Batavius, and the late hour at which she went, might account for the omission, especially as Lysbet remembered that Joanna's servant had been sick, and might be unfit to come. She was determined to excuse Katherine, and she refused to acknowledge the dumb doubt and fear that crouched at her own heart.

In the morning Joris rose very early and went into the garden. Generally this service to nature calmed and cheered him; but he came to breakfast from it, silent and cross. And Lysbet was still disinclined to open a conversation about Katharine. She had enough to do to combat her own feeling on the subject; and she was sensible that Joris, in the absence of any definite object for his anger, blamed her for permitting Katherine so much liberty.

"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 circ.u.mstances 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d'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 antic.i.p.ated 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 a.s.sure you I have the highest sense imaginable of the honour."

"When were they married?"