Hearts Afire

by J. D Rawden

  “Come, fly with me, my own fair love; My bark is waiting in the bay, And soon its snowy wings will speed To happy lands so far away, “And there, for us, the rose of love Shall sweetly bloom and never die.

  Oh, fly with me! We'll happy be Beneath fair Java's smiling sky.”

  “Peter, such nonsense as you sing,” said Joris Morgan, with all the authority of a skipper to his mate. “How can a woman fly when she has no wings? And to say any bark has wings is not the truth. And what kind of rose is the rose of love? Twelve kinds of roses I have chosen for my new garden, but that kind I never heard of; and I will not believe in any rose that never dies. And you also have been to Java; and well you know of the fever and blacks, and the sky that is not smiling, but hot as the place which is not heaven. No respectable person would want to be a married man in Java. I never did.”

  “Sing your own songs, skipper. By yourself you measure every man. If to the kingdom of heaven you did not want to go, astonished and angry you would be that any one did not like the place which is not heaven.”

  “Come, friends and neighbors,” said Joris cheerily, “I will sing you a song; and everyone knows the tune to it, and everyone has heard their fathers and their mothers sing it, —sometimes, perhaps, on the great dikes of the fatherland, and sometimes in their sweet homes that the great Hendrick Hudson found out for them. Now, then, all, a song for MOEDER HOLLAND.

  “'We have taken our land from the sea, its fields are all yellow with grain, its meadows are green on the lea,—And now shall we give it to Spain? No, no, no, no!

  “'We have planted the faith that is pure, That faith to the end we'll maintain; For the word and the truth must endure. Shall we bow to the ground and to Spain? No, no, no, no!

  “'Our ships are on every sea, Our honor has never a stain, Our law and our commerce are free: Are we slaves for the tyrant of Spain? No, no, no, no!

  “'Then, sons of Batavia, the spade,— The spade and the pike and the main, And the heart and the hand and the blade; Is there mercy for merciless Spain? No, no, no, no!'“

  By this time the enthusiasm was wonderful. The short, quick denials came hotter and louder at every verse; and it was easy to understand how these large, slow men, once kindled to white heat, were both irresistible and unconquerable. Every eye was turned to Joris, who stood in his massive, manly beauty a very conspicuous figure. His face was full of feeling and purpose, his large blue eyes limpid and shining; and, as the tumult of applause gradually ceased, he said,—

  “My friends and neighbors, no poet am I; but always wrongs burn in the heart until plain prose cannot utter them. Listen to me. If we wrung the Great Charter and the right of self-taxation in A.D. 1477; if in A.D. 1572 we taught Alva, by force of arms, how dear to us was our maxim, “No taxation without representation.”

  “Shall we give up our long-cherished right?

  Make the blood of our fathers in vain?

  Do we fear any tyrant to fight?

  Shall we hold out our hands for the chain?

  No, no, no, no!”

  Even the women had caught fire at this allusion to the injustice of the President Grant suspending writ of habeas corpus, then hanging over the liberties of the Province; and Mistress Gordon looked curiously and not unkindly at the latent rebels. “England will have foemen worthy of her steel if she turns these good friends into enemies,” she reflected; and then, following some irresistible impulse, she rose with the company, at the request of Joris, to sing unitedly the patriotic invocation,—

  “O fatherland, can we forget thee,—

  Thy courage, thy glory, thy strife?

  O Mother Kirk, can we forget thee?

  No, never! no, never! through life.

  No, no, no, no!”

  The emotion was too intense to be prolonged; and Joris instantly pushed back his chair, and said, “Now, then, friends, for the dance. Myself I think not too old to take out my young wife.”

  Sir Edward, who had looked like a man in a dream during the singing, went eagerly to Charlotte as soon as Joris spoke of dancing. “He felt strong enough,” he said, “to tread a measure in the great dance, and he hoped she would so far honor him.”

  “No, I will not, Sir Edward. I will not take your hands. Often I have told you that.”

  “Just for tonight, forgive me, Charlotte.”

  “I am sorry that all must end so; I cannot dance any more with you;” and then she affected to hear her mother calling, and left him standing among the cheerful crowd, hopeless and distraught with grief. He was not able to recover himself, and the noise and laughter distracted and made him angry. He had expected so much from this occasion, from its influence and associations; and it had been altogether a disappointment. Mistress Gordon's presence troubled him, and he was not free from jealousy regarding the man Harleigh. The fire of jealousy burns with very little fuel; and Sir Edward went away from feast hating very cordially the young and handsome Harleigh Daly.

  Elder Van Heemskirk noticed everything, and he was angry at this new turn in affairs. He felt as if Charlotte had purposely brought Sir Edward to her table to further embarrass Sir Edward; and he said to his wife after their return home, “My love, our son Sir Edward has lost the game for Charlotte Morgan. I don’t care a bodle for it now. A man that gets the woman he wants very seldom gets any other good thing.”

  “Elder!”

  “Ah, well, there's exceptions! I have mind of them. But Sir Edward won't be long daunted. I looked in on him as I came upstairs. He was sitting with a law book, trying to read his trouble away. He's a brave soul. He'll have honors and charges in plenty; and there's very few women that are worth a good office—if you have to choose between them.”

  “You go back on your words, Elder. Take a sleep to yourself. Your pillow may give you wisdom.”

  There are women who are incapable of but one affection,—that one which affects them in especial,—and Charlotte Morgan was of this order. “Harleigh Daly” was perpetually on her tongue. She longed to assume her position as wife, lover and mother. Lysbet Morgan smiled a little when Charlotte asked her advices about her house and her duties, when she disapproved of her father's political attitude, when she looked injured by his imprudence.

  A tear twinkled in Lysbet Morgan's eyes; but she answered, “I shall not distress myself overmuch. Always I have said, “Your father has a big soul. Only what is good for the family that he shall do.”

  “Can all be done in love?”

  “It is the way of your father; and a woman must love her husband.”

  “That is the truth: first and best of all, she must love her husband, but not as the dog loves and fawns on his master, or the squaw bends down to her brave. A good woman gives not up her own principles and thoughts and ways. A good woman will remember the love of her father and mother, her old home, her old friends; and contempt she will not feel and show for the things of the past, which often, for her, were far better than she was worthy of.”

  “You speak much wisdom; Charlotte, for one so young.”

  “There is one I love, mother, and love with all my heart. For him I would die. But for thee also I would die. Love thee, mother? I love thee and my father better because I love him. My mother, fret thee not, nor think that ever I can really forget thee.”

  Lysbet sadly shook her head. “When I was a little girl, Charlotte, I read in a book about the old Romans, how a wicked daughter over the bleeding corpse of her father drove her chariot. She wanted his crown for her own husband; and over the warm, quivering body of her father she drove. When I read that story, Charlotte, my eyes I covered with my hands. I thought such a wicked woman in the world could not be. Alas, how often since then I have seen daughters over the bleeding hearts of their mothers and fathers drive; and frown and scold and be much injured and offended if once, in their pain and sorrow, they cry out.”

  “But this of me remember, mother: if I am not near thee, I shall be loving thee, thinking of thee; telling my husband, and perhaps my littl
e children about thee,—how good thou art, how pretty, how wise. I will order my house as thou hast taught me, and my own dear ones will love me better because I love thee. If to my own mother I be not true, can my husband be sure I will be true to him, if comes the temptation strong enough? Sorry would I be if my heart only one love could hold, and ever the last love the strong love.”

  Still, in spite of this home trouble, and in spite of the national anxiety, the winter months went with a delight some peace and regularity in the Morgan household. Sir Edward ceased to visit Charlotte after the feast. There was no quarrel, and no interruption to the kindness that had so long existed between the families; frequently they walked from morning service together,—Lysbet Morgan and Madam Van Heemskirk, Joris and theElder Van Heemskirk, Charlotte and Sir Edward. But Sir Edward never again offered her his hand; and such conversation as they had was constrained and of the most conventional character.

  Very frequently, also, Guy Barrington spent the evening with them. Joris delighted in his descriptions of Java and Surinam; and Lysbet and Charlotte knit their stockings, and listened to the conversation. It was evident that the young man was deeply in love, and equally evident that Charlotte's parents favored his suit. But the lover felt, that, whenever he attempted to approach her as a lover, Charlotte surrounded herself with an atmosphere that froze the words of admiration or entreaty upon his lips.

  Joris, however, spoke for him. “He has told me how truly he loves thee. Like an honest man he loves thee, and he will make thee a wife honored of many. No better husband can thou have, Charlotte.” So spoke her father to her one evening in the early spring, as they stood together over the budding snowdrops and crocus.

  “There is no love in my heart for him, father.”

  “Sir Edward pleases thee not, nor Guy Barrington. Whom is it thou would have, then? Surely not Harleigh Daly? He is,— a swaggering, a boastful and a penniless tyrant. I will not give thee to any beggart.”

  “If I marry not him, then will I stay with thee always.”

  “Nonsense that is. Thou must marry, like other women. But not him; I would never forgive thee; I would never see thy face again.”

  “Very hard art thou to me. I love Harleigh; can I love this one and then that one? If I were so light-of-love, contempt I should have from all, even from thee.”

  “Now, I have something to say. I have heard that someone,—very like to thee,—someone went twice or three times with Mistress Gordon to see the man when he lay ill at the “King's Arms.” To such talk, my anger and my scorn soon put an end; and I will not ask of thee whether it be true, or whether it be false. For a young girl I can feel.”

  “O father, if for me thou could feel!”

  “See, now, if I thought this man would be to thee a good husband, I would forgive him his light, loose life, and his wicked way he talked to me, and give thee to him, with thy fortune and with my blessing. But I think he will be to thee a careless husband. He will get tired of thy beauty; thy goodness he will not value; thy money he will soon spend. Three sweethearts had he in town before thee. Their very names, I dare say, he hath forgotten ere this.”

  “If Harleigh could make you sure, father, that he would be a good husband, would you then be content that we should be married?”

  “That he cannot do. Can the leopard change his spots? This is what I fear: if thou marry Harleigh Daly, either thou must grow like him, or else he will hate thee, and make thee miserable.”

  “Just a young woman I am. Let us not talk of husbands. Why are you so hurried, father, to give me to this Guy Barrington? Little is known of him but what he says.”

  “The Van Heemskirks have known him a long time. They are very good at discerning character. And I am not in a hurry to give thee away. What I fear is, that thou wilt be a foolish woman, and give thyself away.”

  Charlotte stood with dropped head, looking apparently at the brown earth, and the green box borders, and the shoots of white and purple and gold. But what she really saw, was the pale, handsome face of her sick Harleigh Daly.

  Joris watched her curiously. The expression on her face he could not understand. “So happy she looks!” he thought, “and for what reason?” Charlotte was the first to speak.

  “Who has told you anything about Harleigh Daly, father?”

  “Many have spoken.”

  “Does he get back his good health again?”

  “I hear that. When the warm days come, to New York City he is going. So says Guy Barrington. What has Mistress Gordon told thee? For to see her I know thou goes.”

  “Twice only have I been. I heard not of New York City.”

  “But that is certain. He will go, and what then? Thee he will quite forget, and never more will thou see or hear tell of him.”

  “That I believe not. In the cold winter one would have said of these flowers, “They come no more.” But the winter goes away, and then here they are. Harleigh has been in the dead valley. Sometimes I thought, he will come back to me no more. But now I am sure I shall see him again.”

  Joris turned sadly away. That night he did not speak to her more. But he had the persistence which is usually associated with slow natures. He could not despair. He felt that he must go steadily on trying to move Charlotte to what he really believed was her highest interest. And he permitted nothing to discourage him for very long. Guy Barrington was also a prudent man. He had no intention in his wooing to make haste and lose speed. As to Charlotte's love troubles, he had not been left in ignorance of them. A great many people had given him such information as would enable him to keep his own heart from the wiles of the siren. He had also a wide knowledge of books and life, and in the light of this knowledge he thought that he could understand her. But the conclusion that he deliberately came to was, that Charlotte could not be understood.

  Amid all these different elements, political, social, and domestic, Nature kept her own even, unvarying course. The gardens grew every day fairer, the air more soft and balmy, and the sunshine warmer and more cherishing. Charlotte was not unhappy. As Harleigh grew stronger, he spent his hours in writing long letters to Charlotte. He told her every trivial event, he commented on all she told him. And her letters revealed to him a soul so pure, so true, so loving, that he vowed “he fell in love with her afresh every day of his life.” Charlotte's communications reached her lover readily by the ordinary post; Harleigh's had to be sent through Mistress Gordon. The happy medium was found in the mantua-maker, Miss Pitt. Mistress Gordon was her most profitable customer, and Charlotte went there for needles and threads and such small wares as are constantly needed in a household. And whenever she did so, Miss Pitt was sure to remark, in an after-thought kind of way, “Oh, I had nearly forgotten, miss! Here is a small parcel that Mistress Gordon desired me to present to you.”

  One exquisite morning in May, Charlotte stood at an open window looking over the garden and the river, and the green hills and meadows across the stream. Her heart was full of hope. Harleigh's recovery was so far advanced that he had taken several rides in the middle of the day. Always he had passed the Morgan's house, and always Charlotte had been waiting to rain down upon his lifted face the influence of her most bewitching beauty and her tenderest smiles. She was thinking of the last of these events,—of Harleigh's rapid exhibition of a long stemmed red rose, and the singular and emphatic wave which he gave it towards the house His whole air and attitude had expressed delight and hope.

  As thus she happily mused, someone called her mother from the front hall. On fine mornings it was customary to leave the door standing open; and the visitor advanced to the foot of the stairs, and called once more, “Lysbet Morgan! Is there nobody in to bid me welcome?” Then Charlotte knew it was Madam Van Heemskirk; and she ran to her mother's room, and begged her to go down and receive the caller. For in these days Charlotte dreaded Madam Van Heemskirk a little. Very naturally, the mother blamed her for Sir Edward's suffering and loss of time and prestige; and she found it hard to forgive also her posi
tive rejection of his suit. For her sake, she herself had been made to suffer mortification and disappointment. She had lost her friends in a way which deprived her of all the fruits of her kindness. The Gordon’s thought Sir Edward had transgressed all the laws of hospitality. The Van Heemskirks had a similar charge to make. And it provoked Madam Van Heemskirk that Mistress Gordon continued her friendship with Charlotte. Everyone else blamed Charlotte altogether in the matter; Mistress Gordon had defied the use and wont of society on such occasions, and thrown the whole blame on Sir Edward. Somehow, in her secret heart, Madam Van Heemskirk. “It was Harleigh Daly or Guy Barrington, either of them before our Sir Edward;” and, though there was no apparent diminution of friendship, Elder Van Heemskirk and his wife frequently had a little private grumble at their own fireside.

  And toward Sir Edward, Joris had also a secret feeling of resentment. He had taken no pains to woo Charlotte until someone else wanted her. It was universally conceded that he had been the first to draw his sword, and thus indulge his own temper at the expense of Charlotte's good name and happiness. Taking these faults as rudimentary ones, Lysbet could enlarge on them indefinitely; and Joris had undoubtedly been influenced by his wife's opinions. So, below the smiles and kind words of a long friendship, there was bitterness.

  GETTING AWAY.

  The clean linen, the stockings that required mending, lay upon the table. Charlotte sat down to the task. Resolutely, but almost unconsciously, she put her needle through and through. Her longing for Harleigh was pitiful; this little one, who a few months ago would have wept for a cut finger, now silently battling with the longing agony that can come to a loving woman. At first Lysbet tried to talk to her; but she soon saw that the effort to answer was beyond Charlotte'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.