MYNDERT VAN QUINTEM AND SON.
One morning, when Marcus Wilkeson returned home from a ramble, he found his half-sister Philomela violently dusting the furniture and books of the snug little back parlor. The air was full of dancing motes, which looked large and suffocating in the sunshine. Marcus had politely requested his sister, fifty times at least, not to molest that sanctuary of meditation oftener than once a fortnight. To which she always replied: "I suppose you great lazy fellows would like to have the cobwebs grow on you. But you sha'n't, while I am in the house." Then, with a few dexterous flourishes of her cloth, she would start the dust up in a cloud.
On this morning, Marcus Wilkeson, being in the most tolerant of moods, merely said "Whew!" and took a seat by his favorite window, the lower sash of which he threw wide open, with the vain hope that some of the dust would blow out. Miss Philomela smiled at this act so as to be seen by him. But he did not appear to notice it. Then she whisked her cloth under his very nose, as if to challenge objections. After this aggravation had been repeated three or four times, Marcus felt compelled to make a mild protest.
"Great deal of dust, sister," he said, stating what he presumed would not be contradicted.
"Is there?" replied Miss Philomela, exulting in the success of her stratagem. "I didn't notice it; nor would you, if you had some business to look after, like other people, instead of stopping in the house all day."
Marcus had heard that argument and triumphantly put it down so often, that he did not think it worth another word. Consequently he said nothing.
This obstinate silence galled Miss Philomela; and, after waiting full three minutes to see if Marcus would not answer, and meanwhile dusting prodigiously in his neighborhood, she said:
"Well, it's some gratification to know that you do not have the hardihood to defend yourself. You are well aware that nothing can justify a healthy, middle-aged man--I may say, a young one--in retiring from active life and society, and becoming a great lazy mope."
"I'm really too lazy to discuss it now," replied Marcus, smiling, and filling his meerschaum from the tobacco pouch which hung conveniently at the window's side.
Philomela regarded him for a moment with an expression of pity and horror. Then she heaved a sigh, and muttered something about misapplied talents.
"You had better say, 'Misapplied brooms and dusters,'" retorted her half-brother. "I should be perfectly happy now, but for this confounded dust."
"Laugh away. I know you despise my sisterly advice. But you can never say that I have not done my duty--"
"To the furniture, most assuredly," interrupted Marcus.
Miss Philomela Wilkeson heaved another sigh in the best style of martyrdom, and precipitately left the room, followed by her brother's cheerful, rattling laugh.
"A good old girl enough," said Marcus to himself, "but for her well-meaning and strictly conscientious habit of making people miserable."
Then he lighted his meerschaum, closed the window, squared his chair in front of it, and looked out. His face instantly flushed with pleasure at a strange sight. The blinds of the lower parlor windows across the way, which had been shut for several weeks, were now thrown open, and the white-haired old gentleman, looking thin and pale, sat in his armchair in his old place, and was gazing at him. At least so Marcus thought; but he hesitated to bow until the old gentleman gave a distinct salutation. Marcus returned it two or three times with emphasis, as if to express his great pleasure at seeing his unknown neighbor and friend again. He blushed as he did so, for he was conscious of wilful neglect and cruel indifference, in not having called upon him on New Year's day, or since then, during the period of the closed blinds; and worse still, in not having thought of him a dozen times, though he had taken the trouble to pass his door on his way to or from Mr. Minford's, and had felt relieved to see no black crape on the bell-pull.
"But then," thought Marcus, pleading with and for himself, "my mind has been occupied--very much occupied--- with other matters. Now, if he beckons to me again, I will go over to him without a moment's delay. My old friend looks very sick and unhappy."
Just then the old gentleman reached out his thin white hand, as if the motion required an effort, and beckoned twice. Marcus answered with two bows, and immediately rose, and laid down his pipe on the window sill, thereby implying that he would come over at once. The old gentleman smiled faintly, to express his delight.
In a few minutes Marcus Wilkeson stood at the antique mansion, and pulled the bell. It vibrated feebly as if it shared with the house and its owner the infirmities of age. The bell was answered by an old, neatly dressed female servant. She had been told to admit the caller instantly, and said, "Mr. Van Quintem will see you, sir."
He entered a wide hallway, and followed the noiseless step of the servant, trying to remember, without success, where he had heard the name of Van Quintem.
At the end of the hall the servant opened a door, and ushered him into a room decorated at the edges of the ceiling with heavy wooden carvings, and furnished in the style of the last century. The old gentleman partly rose from his soft armchair, supported himself by one hand on it, and extended the other to his visitor.
"My name is Myndert Van Quintem, sir," said he, "and I am very glad to see you." There was a pleasant smile in the old gentleman's pale face, and a warmth in the grasp of his thin right hand, that attested the sincerity of his words.
"And my name is Marcus Wilkeson, sir; and I am truly happy to make your acquaintance," responded the visitor, in his most genial manner.
The old gentleman here showed symptoms of faintness from the exertion of standing; and Marcus, taking him by the arm, forced him gently into his easy chair, and took a seat beside him.
"I must apologize for not having called before," said Marcus. "I--"
"Not a word, sir," interrupted the old gentleman. "It is I who must apologize for the rudeness of nodding and beckoning to a perfect stranger. But the fact was, I could not regard you as a stranger. Seeing you at your window, smoking and reading, day after day, while I was smoking and musing at mine, I gradually came to sympathize with you, and to wish that the distance across the lots was short enough to allow us to converse. I thought, perhaps, that on some subjects we might interest each other. Now, be good enough to fill that pipe and smoke it, while I tell you in few words who I am."
He pointed to a meerschaum, carved into the semblance of a Dutchman's head, which looked not unlike his own. It was fitted to a long Turkish stem, and hung against the wall by a silver chain, within reach of his hand. Five other pipes of quaint design hung near it.
Marcus protested against smoking in an invalid's presence; but the old gentleman insisted upon it, and playfully but firmly threatened to smoke the pipe himself if his guest did not. So Marcus filled the large bowl from a paper of old, mild tobacco, which hung in a pouch near it, and drew a few gentle whiffs, intending to let the pipe go out. But the old gentleman watched him.
"'Twon't do," said he. "That old pipe of mine is not used to neglect. As a particular favor, now, I beg that you'll smoke, and puff out clouds, as I have often seen you do across the way."
Marcus protested again, but the old gentleman stubbornly maintained his point; and it was not till the pungent smoke began to curl upward, that he proceeded with his personal disclosure.
"Have you ever heard my name before, Mr. Wilkeson?" said he.
Marcus bowed, and said that he had not had that pleasure.
"Of course not," returned the old gentleman, not displeased with the answer. "I have taken infinite pains to keep out of public life since I retired from business, twenty-five years ago. Even before that time, I was known only to a very few persons as a silent partner in the large iron-importing house of Sniggs, Buffet & Co. I had no relations, and few friends, in the common acceptance of that much-abused word. My only happiness was in my wife--that is her picture hanging over the mantelpiece--and this house, which my father built, and which, according to a tradition in our family, is on or near the spot where my great-great-grandfather, the fourth Myndert Van Quintem, perished by the hands of the Indians."
"Then," interrupted Marcus, "you belong to an old Dutch family?"
"To one of the oldest on record," replied Mr. Van Quintem. "My great ancestor, the genuine original Myndert, came over as cook with Hendrik Hudson. We have an iron spoon of doubtful authenticity, said to have descended from him. Sometimes I have paid the penalty of this ancient and distinguished origin, by receiving stupid compliments on my old Dutch blood, as if that species of blood were better than any other. That sort of nonsense I have always answered by informing the flatterer that the first bearer of my venerable name was a cook; the second, a tanner; the third--well, the least said about the third the better; and the fourth, a barber. My grandfather, a very worthy saddler, in old Queen's street, was the first of the series that was ever able to buy and hold real estate. My father increased upon his purchases, and, when the property came into my possession, I, in turn, added to its extent as fast as I could. In forty years, this property has become valuable; and I now find myself and my lots occupying a large space on the tax rolls.
"It is a curious fact, and illustrates the uncertainty of human events, that my success is the result of accident, and is not in the least due to my judgment or foresight. Every kind of business that I have engaged in--and I have tried several kinds--has failed. Sniggs, Buffet & Co. almost finished me; and, if I had not backed out as I did, the better part of my estate would have been sacrificed. Among those who know me, I pass for a very shrewd business man, who has made a fortune by his numerous failures. This tribute to my abilities is flattering, but I must disclaim it. But I am tiring you with these petty details of my life."
"Not at all, really," said Marcus Wilkeson, who enjoyed the old gentleman's frankness.
Mr. Van Quintem paused, and began to show signs of fatigue. He asked for a cordial which stood on an old sideboard with great lion's feet, near his visitor's chair. Having sipped of its contents, he expressed himself relieved, and resumed his story:
"As I was saying, I found my whole happiness in my wife, and in this house. With the exception of a few friends of my youth--now all dead--she was my only society. Like me, she was fond of retirement and of books. You, sir, can appreciate the quiet, satisfying pleasure which we derived from books, for you, too, are a constant, happy reader; and you have fine books, as I know by the size of them. You see, I have been observing you closely," he added, with a smile. The old gentleman's smile was sweet, but relapsed into a mild expression of sadness.
"Not more closely than I have observed you," said Marcus. "I have often wondered what stout old quartos you were reading. To tell you the truth, I inferred, from the dimensions of the books and your white cravat, that you were a clergyman." Marcus might have added, that the old gentleman's flowing white locks and benevolent features had contributed to the illusion; but he had already discovered that Mr. Van Quintem, like himself, was averse to compliments.
The old gentleman took the remark good-naturedly. "This is not the first time," said he, "that my old-fashioned fancy for a white cravat has led to that mistake. You will find very little of the body of divinity in that library. When I recover from this illness so as to hobble about, we will look over my little collection together."
Marcus said that nothing could give him greater delight, unless it was to show his friend his own humble library.
"Thank you," returned Mr. Van Quintem; "and I promise to run over and look at it when I am well enough to go out." The haste with which the old gentleman made the last remark, and the fact that he did not invite his visitor to examine the library then and there, led Marcus to think that the old gentleman had some private trouble on his mind, which he wished to diminish by imparting to another. Marcus was right.
The old gentleman heaved a sigh, and resumed:
"For ten years after my retirement, my wife and I lived on in the calm, happy manner that I have described. We had no griefs--not even that one which most commonly afflicts parents, the loss of children. Yet I sometimes think, sir, that it would be far better for some children to die in their youth and innocence, than to grow up and become bad men, and torture and almost kill their parents with ingratitude and unkindness." Marcus guessed what was to come.
"We had but one child--a boy--born long after I had given up all hopes of having an heir. I need not tell you, sir, what a joy he was to us in his infancy; for you, too, I presume, are a husband and a father."
Marcus replied confusedly, and as if it were something to be ashamed of, that he was neither the one nor the other, though he hoped some day (here he was exceedingly awkward) to be both.
The old gentleman was so wrapped up in his own thoughts, that he did not seem to notice the reply. He again braced himself in the chair, as if he would, by that act, gather strength to proceed.
"Of course, I called the child Myndert. He was the seventh of that name; and I used to think, even when he was a toddling little baby, what plans of education would be best suited to develop his talents. I know that a parent's partiality is a magnifying glass of high power; but, to the best of my belief, he was a most precocious child. I think so now, as I look back upon the days of his prattling innocence.
"After a great deal of debating, my wife and I concluded to make a lawyer of him. He was to be the first lawyer in our family annals; and we fondly pictured to ourselves that he would become an eminent judge, or that he would step from the bar into political life, and shed honor upon his country and his family as a statesman. I know how ridiculous these imaginings must seem to you, and I recall them only to show you how deeply our hearts were wrapped up in that boy.
"When our little Myndert was five years old, my wife died." Here the old gentleman clutched the arms of the chair firmly with both hands. "Our son had been very sick for a week before, and my dear Clara had nearly worn herself out watching over and nursing him. A severe cold, which she caught while going to the druggist's in a rain, did the rest. She died with one arm around me and the other around little Myndert; and her last words were a blessing on the boy, and a request that I would always love him for her sake." The old gentleman's eyes glistened with tears, and his lips twitched convulsively. Marcus evinced his sympathy in the fittest way, by keeping silence, and fixing his eyes on the floor.
"Well, sir, not to be tedious, I lavished my whole heart upon that child. His presence seemed to be some consolation for the great loss I had sustained. His features were so like hers, in all except the eyes, that I seemed to see her through him; and thus, in a peculiar sense, I loved him for her sake, indeed. He was petted and caressed from his very cradle. Ah, there was my error; but who can blame a father for over-loving his only son, and that one motherless!
"He early showed indications of a fierce temper and a sullen pride, in which respects he resembled not his mother, but her father, who, with the exception of these two faults, was a good and just man. I have heard of cases in which strong mental traits jump over a generation, and appear in the next one. I thought, and still think, that my son's singular peculiarities might be explained in that way. If you will bear with me, sir, I will give you some illustrations of his character.
"When he was nine years of age, a dear friend, now dead, advised me not to injure so precocious an intellect by too much cultivation, but to put the boy on a farm, where he could divide his time between healthful work and youthful sports, and would be kept away from the contaminating influences of the city, I agreed to make the experiment, though reluctantly, for I could not bear the thought of parting with my child. An old family acquaintance who owned a farm in Dutchess County, and had no children, was willing to take my boy.
"Little Myndert liked the idea of going into the country, and for two weeks he behaved very well; and his acting father wrote me, that if I could spare the boy, he would like to adopt him as his own. But the next letter, a week afterward, brought a different story. It was while Myndert was not put to work, that he behaved so well. But when the farmer gave him a little hoe, and asked him to grub up a few weeds in the garden, the lad threw it down, and said to the farmer, 'I hate you.' This was his favorite expression to those who aroused his displeasure when a child. The good man was astonished at this insubordination, and tried to persuade Myndert to do as he was told. But persuasion was useless; and so were the threats with which the farmer tried to frighten him. As for whipping the boy, he was, like me, too soft-hearted to do that.
"So Myndert became the master there, as he had been here. His real nature now came out. From that time until the worthy farmer sent the boy home in despair--ten weeks later--he was the wonder and terror of the neighborhood. Chickens, goslings, and young ducks were killed; boughs of apple trees and other fruit trees were broken down; strawberry beds were entered, and the plants pulled up by the roots; the windows of the village church and schoolhouse were broken with stones; and three fourths of these acts were traced to little Myndert. He always denied the charges, and put on an air of innocence, which deceived many persons.
"The cunning which he exhibited in doing these malicious acts, and trying to divert suspicion from himself, was truly wonderful in a child of his age. One day he was caught by a farmer in the act of killing some young chickens; and the owner was so mad, that he whipped the boy soundly. That very night the farmer's wood shed was set on fire from the outside; but a heavy rain came on, and put out the flames. The traces of the fire were plainly to be seen next morning; and the farmer found proofs enough, I fear, to have convicted my son of a felony.
"My friend informed me of all these facts in a very sorrowful letter, and I hastened to take my son once more under my own roof.
"Here I tried every method that a father's love could devise to reform him. But all was useless. He seemed to have no idea of truth or honor, of affection or duty to me. When, at times, I thought he was showing signs of improvement, I always found, afterward, that he was only concealing his mischievous acts more carefully. I call them mischievous, though the word 'malicious' would perhaps describe them better; for they were all undertaken in a spirit of evil, and not of fun." The old gentleman here rested, and refreshed himself with a sip of the cordial.
"But it would take days to tell you of all my troubles with that boy, and I will briefly refer to the rest of them.
"By the advice of another friend (for I have never taken any step in the treatment of my child without first seeking for friendly advice), I sent him, when twelve years of age, to a celebrated school in Massachusetts, where the discipline is very strict. I had a personal interview with the master, and requested him, as a favor, to chastise Myndert, if all other means failed to subdue him. Though I could not bear to whip him, I was willing that he should suffer a proper punishment, inflicted in the right spirit, from others. At this school he conducted himself properly for about three weeks, and was taking a high rank as a scholar, when his natural tastes asserted themselves, in all sorts of wicked pranks on his fellow pupils, on the teachers, and on people in the village. The master at first expostulated, and then gave Myndert a good thrashing. That night the master narrowly escaped being hit by a large stone thrown through his bedroom window. Next morning my son was missing, and for three weeks no trace of him could be found. I advertised in newspapers, describing him, and offering large rewards for his recovery. I had the same notice printed on bills, and stuck up all through the country. I employed detectives to trace out the runaway. A month passed, and no tidings. I was in despair. Toward the close of the fifth week, one of the detectives struck a trail on Cape Cod, and, after a patient search, found the young rascal living, under the assumed name of Carlo, with a fisherman, in a little seaside hamlet. As the fishing season was a good one, and men were scarce, the fisherman had gladly received my son as an apprentice for his board. The novelty, excitement, and sometimes danger of the pursuit pleased Myndert greatly, and the old fisherman said that he was a good hand for a boy. When the detective found him, however, he was beginning to be tired of his strange occupation (nothing pleases him long), and he consented to come home on condition that I would not scold him, and would give him plenty of pocket money. I had been weak enough to authorize the making of these promises.
"The return of my prodigal son made me happy. As I had promised, I did not reproach him, and gave him all the money that he wished. He was not old enough to know how to spend money viciously. His tastes, though costly, were comparatively innocent. From childhood he had always been very fond of new clothes, and he indulged that passion to the utmost. At twelve years of age, he was called the 'Young Dandy' all through this part of the town; and I sometimes heard of his attracting attention on Broadway.
"He was so well satisfied with my generosity, that he consented to receive two short lessons daily from tutors at the house, and surprised them, as he did everybody, with his wonderful aptitude for learning."