And even while she looked at the woeful young face before her, the mother antic.i.p.ated the smaller, festering sorrows that would spring from this great one,--the shame and mortification the mockery of those who had envied Katherine; the inquiries, condolences, and advices of friends; the complacent self-congratulation of Batavius, who would be certain to remind them of every provoking admonition he had given on the subject. And who does not know that these little trials of life are its hardest trials? The mother did not attempt to say one word of comfort, or hope, or excuse. She only took the child in her arms, and wept for her. At this hour she would not wound her by even an angry word concerning him.
"I loved him so much, _moeder_."
"Thou could not help it. Handsome, and gallant, and gay he was. I never shall forget seeing thee dance with him."
"And he did love me. A woman knows when she is loved."
"Yes, I am sure he loved thee."
"He has gone? Really gone?"
"No doubt is there of it. Stay in thy room, and have thy grief out with thyself."
"No; I will come to my work. Every day will now be the same. I shall look no more for any joy; but my duty I will do."
They went downstairs together. The clean linen, the stockings that required mending, lay upon the table. Katherine sat down to the task.
Resolutely, but almost unconsciously, she put her needle through and through. Her suffering was pitiful; this little one, who a few months ago would have wept for a cut finger, now silently battling with the bitterest agony that can come to a loving woman,--the sense of cruel, unexpected, unmerited desertion. At first Lysbet tried to talk to her; but she soon saw that the effort to answer was beyond Katherine"s power, and conversation was abandoned. So for an hour, an hour of speechless sorrow, they sat. The tick of the clock, the purr of the cat, the snap of a breaking thread, alone relieved the tension of silence in which this act of suffering was completed. Its atmosphere was becoming intolerable, like that of a nightmare; and Lysbet was feeling that she must speak and move, and so dissipate it, when there was a loud knock at the front door.
Katherine trembled all over. "To-day I cannot bear it, mother. No one can I see. I will go upstairs."
Ere the words were finished, Mrs. Gordon"s voice was audible. She came into the room laughing, with the smell of fresh violets and the feeling of the brisk wind around her. "Dear madam," she cried, "I entreat you for a favour. I am going to take the air this afternoon: be so good as to let Katherine come with me. For I must tell you that the colonel has orders for Boston, and I may see my charming friend no more after to-day."
"Katherine, what say you? Will you go?"
"Please, _mijn moeder_."
"Make great haste, then." For Lysbet was pleased with the offer, and fearful that Joris might arrive, and refuse to let his daughter accept it. She hoped that Katherine would receive some comforting message; and she was glad that on this day, of all others, Captain Hyde"s aunt should be seen with her. It would in some measure stop evil surmises; and it left an air of uncertainty about the captain"s relationship to Katherine, which made the humiliation of his departure less keen.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "I am going to take the air this afternoon"]
"Stay not long," she whispered, "for your father"s sake. There is no good, more trouble to give him."
"Well, my dear, you look like a ghost. Have you not one smile for a woman so completely in your interest? When I promised d.i.c.k this morning that I would be _sure_ to get word to you, I was at my wits" end to discover a way. But, when I am between the horns of a dilemma, I find it the best plan to take the bull by the horns. Hence, I have made you a visit which seems to have quite nonplussed you and your good mother."
"I thought Richard had gone."
"And you were breaking your heart, that is easy to be seen. He has gone, but he will come back to-night at eight o"clock. No matter what happens, be at the river-side. Do not fail d.i.c.k: he is taking his life in his hand to see you."
"I will be there."
"La! what are you crying for, child? Poor girl! What are you crying for?
d.i.c.k, the scamp? He is not worthy of such pure tears; and yet, believe me, he loves you to distraction."
"I thought he had gone--gone, without a word."
"Faith, you are not complimentary! I flatter myself that our d.i.c.k is a gentleman. I do, indeed. And, as he is yet perfectly in his senses, you might have trusted him."
"And you, do you go to Boston to-morrow?"
"The colonel does. At present, I have no such intentions. But I had to have some extraordinary excuse, and I could invent no other. However, you may say anything, if you only say it with an a.s.surance. Madam wished me a pleasant journey. I felt a little sorry to deceive so fine a lady."
"When will Richard return?"
"Indeed, I think you will have to answer for his resolves. But he will speak for himself; and, in faith, I told him that he had come to a point where I would be no longer responsible for his actions. I am thankful to own that I have some conscience left."
The ride was not a very pleasant one. Katherine could not help feeling that Mrs. Gordon was _distrait_ and inconsistent; and, towards its close, she became very silent. Yet she kissed her kindly, and drawing her closely for a last word, said, "Do not forget to wear your wadded cloak and hood. You may have to take the water; for the councillor is very suspicious, let me tell you. Remember what I say,--the wadded cloak and hood; and good-by, good-by, my dear."
"Shall I see you soon?"
"When we may meet again, I do not pretend to say; till then, I am entirely yours; and so again good-by."
The ride had not occupied an hour; but, when Katherine got home, Lysbet was making tea. "A cup will be good for you, _mijn kind_." And she smiled tenderly in the face that had been so white in its woeful anguish, but on which there was now the gleam of hope. And she perceived that Katherine had received some message, she even divined that there might be some appointment to keep; and she determined not to be too wise and prudent, but to trust Katherine for this evening with her own destiny.
That night there was a meeting at the Town Hall, and Joris left the house soon after his tea. He was greatly touched by Katharine"s effort to appear cheerful; and when she followed him to the door, and, ere he opened it, put her arms round his neck, and kissed him, murmuring, "My father, _mijn vader_!" he could not restrain his tears.
"_Mijn kind, my liefste kind_!" he answered. And then his soul in its great emotion turned affectionately to the supreme fatherhood; for he whispered to himself, as he walked slowly and solemnly in the pleasant evening light: ""_Gelijk sich een vader outfermt over de kinderen_!" Oh, so great must be Thy pity! My own heart can tell that now."
For an hour or more Katherine sat in the broad light of the window, folding and unfolding the pieces of white linen, sewing a st.i.tch or two here, and putting on a b.u.t.ton or tape there. Madam pa.s.sed quietly to and fro about her home duties, sometimes stopping to say a few words to her daughter. It was a little interval of household calm, full of household work; of love a.s.sured without need of words, of confidence anch.o.r.ed in undoubting souls. When Lysbet was ready to do so, she began to lay into the deep drawers of the presses the table-linen which Katherine had so neatly and carefully examined. Over a pile of fine damask napkins she stood, with a perplexed, annoyed face; and Katherine, detecting it, at once understood the cause.
"One is wanting of the dozen, mother. At the last cake-baking, with the dish of cake sent to Joanna it went. Back it has not come."
"For it you might go, Katherine. I like not that my sets are broken."
Katherine blushed scarlet. This was the opportunity she wanted. She wondered if her mother suspected the want; but Lysbet"s face expressed only a little worry about the missing damask. Slowly, though her heart beat almost at her lips, she folded away her work, and put her needle, and thread, and thimble, and scissors, each in its proper place in her house-wife. So deliberate were all her actions, that Lysbet"s suspicions were almost allayed. Yet she thought, "If out she wishes to go, leave I have now given her; and, if not, still the walk will do her some good."
And yet there was in her heart just that element of doubt, which, whenever it is present, ought to make us pause and reconsider the words we are going to speak or write, and the deed we are going to do.
The nights were yet chilly,--though the first blooms were on the trees,--and the wadded cloak and hood were not so far out of season as to cause remark. As she came downstairs, the clock struck seven. There was yet an hour, and she durst not wait so long at the bottom of the garden while it was early in the evening. When her work was done, Lysbet frequently walked down it; she had a motherly interest in the budding fruit-trees and the growing flowers. And a singular reluctance to leave home a.s.sailed Katherine. If she had known that it was to be forever, her soul could not have more sensibly taken its farewell of all the dear, familiar objects of her daily life. About her mother this feeling culminated. She found her cap a little out of place; and her fingers lingered in the lace, and stroked fondly her hair and pink cheeks, until Lysbet felt almost embarra.s.sed by the tender, but unusual show of affection.
"Now, then, go, my Katherine. To Joanna give my dear love. Tell her that very good were the cheesecakes and the krullers, and that to-morrow I will come over and see the new carpet they have bought."
And while she spoke she was retying Katherine"s hood, and admiring as she did so the fair, sweet face in its quiltings or crimson satin, and the small, dimpled chin resting upon the fine bow she tied under it.
Then she followed her to the door, and watched her down the road until she saw her meet Dominie Van Linden, and stand a moment holding his hand. "A message I am going for my mother," she said, as she firmly refused his escort. "Then with madam, your mother, I will sit until you return," he replied cheerfully; and Katherine answered, "That will be a great pleasure to her, sir."
A little farther she walked; but suddenly remembering that the dominie"s visit would keep her mother in the house, and being made restless by the gathering of the night shadows, she turned quickly, and taking the very road up which Hyde had come the night Neil Semple challenged him, she entered the garden by a small gate at its foot, which was intended for the gardener"s use. The lilacs had not much foliage, but in the dim light her dark, slim figure was undistinguishable behind them. Longingly and anxiously she looked up and down the water-way. A mist was gathering over it; and there were no boats in the channel except two pleasure-shallops, already tacking to their proper piers. "The Dauntless" had been out of sight for hours. There was not the splash of an oar, and no other river sound at that point, but the low, peculiar "wish-h-h" of the turning tide.
In the pettiest character there are unfathomable depths; and Katherine"s, though yet undeveloped, was full of n.o.ble aspirations and singularly sensitive. As she stood there alone, watching and waiting in the dim light, she had a strange consciousness of some mysterious life ante-dating this life! and of a long-forgotten voice filling the ear-chambers of that spiritual body which was the celestial inhabitant of her natural body. "_Richard, Richard_," she murmured; and she never doubted but that he heard her.
All her senses were keenly on the alert. Suddenly there was the sound of oars, and the measure was that of steady, powerful strokes. She turned her face southward, and watched. Like a flash a boat shot out of the shadow,--a long, swift boat, that came like a Fate, rapidly and without hesitation, to her very feet. Richard quickly left it and with a few strokes it was carried back into the dimness of the central channel.
Then he turned to the lilac-trees.
"Katherine!"
It was but a whisper, but she heard it. He opened his arms, and she flew to their shelter like a bird to her mate.
"My love, my wife, my beautiful wife! My true, good heart! Now, at last my own; nothing shall part us again, Katherine,--never again. I have come for you--come at all risks for you. Only five minutes the boat can wait. Are you ready?"
"I know not, Richard. My father--my mother"--
"My husband! Say that also, beloved. Am I not first? If you will not go with me, _here_ I shall stay; and, as I am still on duty, death and dishonour will be the end. O Katherine, shall I die again for you? Will you break my sword in disgrace over my head! Faith, darling, I know that you would rather die for me."