The Maid of Maiden Lane

by Amelia E. Barr

“It is my aunt’s words. She is always speaking dark and doubtful things. However, the pearls are mine at last!” and she carried them with her downstairs, throwing back her head as if they were round her white throat and—as was her way—spreading herself as she went.

All fine weddings are much alike. It was only in such accidentals as costume that Arenta’s differed from the fine weddings of to-day. There was the same crush of gayly attired women, of men in full dress, or military dress, or distinguished by diplomatic insignia:—the same low flutter of silk, and stir of whispered words, and suppressed excitement—the same eager crowd along the streets and around the church to watch the advent of the bride and bridegroom. All of the guests had seen them very often before, yet they too looked at the dazzling girl in white as if they expected an entirely different person. The murmur of pleasure, the indefinable stir of human emotion, the solemn mystical words at the altar that were making two one, the triumphant peal of music when they ceased, and the quick crescendo of rising congratulation—all these things were present then, as now. And then, as now, all these things failed to conceal from sensitive minds that odour of human sacrifice, not to be disguised with the scent of bridal flowers—that immolation of youth and beauty and charming girlhood upon the altar of an unknown and an untried love.

New York was not then too busy making money to take an interest in such a wedding, and Arenta’s drive through its pleasant streets was a kind of public invitation. For Jacob Van Ariens was one of a guild of wealthy merchants, and they were at their shop doors to express their sympathy by lifted hats and smiling faces; while the women looked from every window, and the little children followed, their treble voices heralding and acclaiming the beautiful bride. Then came the breakfast and the health-drinking and the speech-making and the rather sadder drive to the wharf at which lay La Belle France. And even Arenta was by this time weary of the excitement, so that it was almost with a sense of relief she stepped across the little carpeted gangway to her deck. Then the anchor was lifted, the cable loosened, and with every sail set La Belle France went dancing down the river on the tide-top to the open sea.

Van Ariens and his son Rem turned silently away. A great and evident depression had suddenly taken the place of their assumed satisfaction. “I am going to the Swamp office,” said Rem after a few moments’ silence, “there is something to be done there.”

“That is well,” answered Peter. “To my Cousin Deborah I will give some charges about the silver, and then I will follow you.”

Both men were glad to be alone. They had outworn emotion and knew instinctively that some common duty was the best restorer. The same feeling affected, in one way or another, all the watchers of this destiny. Women whose household work was belated, whose children were strayed, who had used up their nervous strength in waiting and feeling, were now cross and inclined to belittle the affair and to be angry at Arenta and themselves for their lost day. And men, young and old, all went back to their ledgers and counters and manufacturing with a sense of lassitude and dejection.

Peter had nearly reached his own house when he met Doctor Moran. The doctor was more irritable than depressed. He looked at his friend and said sharply, “You have a fever, Van Ariens. Go to bed and sleep.”

“To work I will go. That is the best thing to do. My house has no comfort in it. Like a milliner’s or a mercer’s store it has been for many weeks. Well, then, my Cousin Deborah is at work there, and in a little while—a little while—” He suddenly stopped and looked at the doctor with brimming eyes. In that moment he understood that no putting to rights could ever make his home the same. His little saucy, selfish, but dearly loved Arenta would come there no more; and he found not one word that could express the tide of sorrow rising in his heart. Doctor John understood. He remained quiet, silent, clasping Van Ariens’ hand until the desolate father with a great effort blurted out—

“She is gone!—and smiling, also, she went.”

“It is the curse of Adam,” answered Doctor Moran bitterly—“to bring up daughters, to love them, to toil and save and deny ourselves for them, and then to see some strange man, of whom we have no certain knowledge, carry them off captive to his destiny and his desires. ‘Tis a thankless portion to be a father—a bitter pleasure.”