"It was the work of a moment to possess herself of the book"
It was the work of a moment to possess herself of the book; and the girls, settling themselves comfortably in their chairs, gave themselves up to the pleasure of listening to the following spirited narrative:—
CHAPTER XII.
"The fair and pleasant city of Breda lies on the Merk,—a slender stream navigable for small vessels, which finds its way to the sea through the great canal of the Dental. It had been the property of the Princes of Orange, Barons of Breda, and had passed with the other possessions of the family to the house of Châlons-Nassau. Henry of Nassau had, half a century before, adorned and strengthened it by a splendid palace-fortress, which, surrounded by a deep and double moat, thoroughly commanded the town. A garrison of five companies of Italian infantry and one of cavalry lay in this castle, which was under the command of Edward Lanzavecchia, governor both of Breda and of the neighboring Gertruydenberg. Breda was an important strategical position. It was, moreover, the feudal superior of a large number of adjacent villages, as well as of the cities of Osterhout, Steenberg, and Rosendaal. It was obviously not more desirable for Maurice of Nassau to recover his patrimonial city than it was for the States-General to drive the Spaniards from so important a position.
"In the month of February, 1590, Maurice, being then at the castle of Voorn, in Zeeland, received a secret visit from a boatman,—Adrian Van der Berg by name,—who lived at the village of Leur, eight or ten miles from Breda, and who had been in the habit of supplying the castle with turf. In the absence of wood and coal-mines, the habitual fuel of the country was furnished by those vast relics of the antediluvian forests, which abounded in the still partially submerged soil. The skipper represented that his vessel had passed so often into and out of the castle as to be hardly liable to search by the guard on its entrance. He suggested a stratagem by which it might be possible to surprise the stronghold. The prince approved of the scheme, and immediately consulted with Barneveld. That statesman at once proposed, as a suitable man to carry out the daring venture, Captain Charles de Heraugiere,—a nobleman of Cambray,—who had been long in the service of the States, had distinguished himself at Sluys and on other occasions, but who had been implicated in Leicester's nefarious plot to gain possession of the city of Leyden, a few years before. The advocate expressed confidence that he would be grateful for so signal an opportunity of retrieving a somewhat damaged reputation. Heraugiere, who was with his company in Voorn at the moment, eagerly signified his desire to attempt the enterprise as soon as the matter was communicated to him, avowing the deepest devotion to the House of William the Silent, and perfect willingness to sacrifice his life, if necessary, in its cause and that of the country. Philip Nassau, cousin of Prince Maurice, and brother of Lewis William, Governor of Gorcum Dorcum and Lowenstein Castle, and colonel of a regiment of cavalry, was also taken into the secret, as well as Count Hohenlo, President Van der Myle, and a few others; but a mystery was carefully spread and maintained over the undertaking. Heraugiere selected sixty-eight men, on whose personal daring and patience he knew that he could rely, from the regiments of Philip Nassau and Famars, governor of the neighboring city of Hensden, and from his own company. Besides himself, the officers to command the party were Captains Lozier and Fervet, and Lieutenant Matthew Held. The names of such devoted soldiers deserve to be commemorated, and are still freshly remembered by their countrymen.
"On the 25th of February, Maurice and his staff went to Willemstad, on the isle of Klundert, it having been given out on his departure from the Hague that his destination was Dort. On the same night, at about eleven o'clock, by the feeble light of a waning moon, Heraugiere and his band came to the Swertsenburg ferry, as agreed upon, to meet the boatman. They found neither him nor his vessel, and they wandered about half the night, very cold, very indignant, much perplexed. At last, on their way back, they came upon the skipper at the village of Terheyde, who made the extraordinary excuse that he had overslept himself, and that he feared the plot had been discovered. It being too late to make any attempt that night, a meeting was arranged for the following evening. No suspicion of treachery occurred to any of the party, although it became obvious that the skipper had grown faint-hearted. He did not come on the next night to the appointed place, but he sent two nephews, boatmen like himself, whom he described as dare-devils.
"On Monday night, the 26th of February, the seventy went on board the vessel, which was apparently filled with blocks of turf, and packed themselves closely in the hold. They moved slowly during a little time on their perilous voyage, for the winter wind, thick with fog and sleet, blew directly down the river, bringing along with it huge blocks of ice, and scooping the water out of the dangerous shallows, so as to render the vessel at any moment liable to be stranded. At last the navigation became impossible, and they came to a standstill. From Monday night till Thursday morning those seventy Hollanders lay packed like herrings in the hold of their little vessel, suffering from hunger, thirst, and deadly cold; yet not one of them attempted to escape or murmured a wish to abandon the enterprise. Even when the third morning dawned, there was no better prospect of proceeding, for the remorseless east wind still blew a gale against them, and the shoals which beset their path had become more dangerous than ever. It was, however, absolutely necessary to recruit exhausted nature, unless the adventurers were to drop powerless on the threshold when they should at last arrive at their destination. In all secrecy they went ashore at a lonely castle called Nordam, where they remained to refresh themselves until about eleven at night, when one of the boatmen came to them with the intelligence that the wind had changed and was now blowing freshly from the sea. Yet the voyage of a few leagues, on which they were embarked, lasted nearly two whole days longer; on Saturday afternoon they passed through the last sluice, and at about three o'clock the last boom was shut behind them. There was no retreat possible for them now. The seventy were to take the strong castle and city of Breda or to lay down their lives every man of them. No quarter and short shrift,—such was their certain destiny, should that crippled, half-frozen little band not succeed in their task before another sunrise.
"They were now in the outer harbor, and not far from the water-gate which led into the inner castle-haven. Presently an officer of the guard put off in a skiff and came on board the vessel. Those inside could see and hear his every movement. Had there been a single cough or sneeze from within, the true character of the cargo, then making its way into the castle, would have been discovered, and every man would, within ten minutes, have been butchered. But the officer, unsuspecting, soon took his departure, saying that he would send some men to warp the vessel into the castle dock.
"Meantime, as the adventurers were making their way slowly towards the water-gate, they struck upon a hidden obstruction in the river, and the deeply laden vessel sprang a leak. In a few minutes those inside were sitting up to their knees in water,—a circumstance which scarcely improved their already sufficiently dismal condition. The boatmen vigorously plied the pumps to save the vessel from sinking outright; a party of Italian soldiers soon arrived on the shore, and in the course of a couple of hours they had laboriously dragged the concealed Hollanders into the inner harbor and made their vessel fast, close to the guard-house of the castle. And now a crowd of all sorts came on board. The winter nights had been long and fearfully cold, and there was almost a dearth of fuel both in town and fortress. A gang of laborers set to work discharging the turf from the vessel with such rapidity that the departing daylight began to shine in upon the prisoners much sooner than they wished. Moreover the thorough wetting to which, after all their other inconveniences they had just been exposed, in their narrow escape from foundering, had set the whole party sneezing and coughing. Never was a catarrh so sudden, so universal, or ill-timed. Lieutenant Held, unable to control the violence of his cough, drew his dagger and eagerly implored his next neighbor to stab him to the heart, lest his infirmity should lead to the discovery of the whole party. But the calm and wary skipper who stood on the deck instantly commanded his companion to work at the pump with as much chatter as possible, assuring the persons present that the hold was nearly full of water. By this means the noise of the coughing was effectually drowned. Most thoroughly did the bold boatman deserve the title of "dare-devil" bestowed by his more faint-hearted uncle. Calmly looking death in the face, he stood there, quite at his ease, exchanging jokes with his old acquaintances, chaffering with the eager purchasers of peat, shouting most noisy and superfluous orders to the one man who composed his crew, doing his utmost, in short, to get rid of his customers and to keep enough of the turf on board to conceal the conspirators. At last, when the case seemed almost desperate, he loudly declared that sufficient had been unladen for that evening and that it was too dark and he was too tired for further work. So giving a handful of stivers among the workmen, he bade them go ashore at once and have some beer, and come next morning for the rest of the cargo. Fortunately, they accepted his hospitable proposition and took their departure; only the servant of the captain of the guard lingered behind, complaining that the turf was not as good as usual, and that his master would never be satisfied with it.
"'Ah!' returned the cool skipper, 'the best part of the cargo is underneath. This is expressly reserved for the captain. He is sure to get enough of it to-morrow.'
"Thus admonished, the servant departed, and the boatman was left to himself. His companion had gone on shore with secret orders to make the best of his way to Prince Maurice, to inform him of the arrival of the ship within the fortress, and of the important fact which they had just learned that Governor Lanzavecchia, who had heard rumors of some projected enterprise, and who suspected that the object aimed at was Gertruydenberg, had suddenly taken his departure from that city, leaving as his lieutenant his nephew Paola, a raw lad, quite incompetent to provide for the safety of Breda. A little before midnight, Captain Heraugiere made a brief address to his comrades in the vessel, telling them that the hour for carrying out their undertaking had at length arrived. Retreat was impossible, defeat was certain death; only in complete victory lay their own safety and a great advantage for the Commonwealth. It was an honor for them to be selected for such an enterprise. To show cowardice now would be an eternal shame for them, and he would be the man to strike dead with his own hand any traitor or poltroon. But if, as he doubted not, every one was prepared to do his duty, their success was assured, and he was himself ready to take the lead in confronting every danger. He then divided the little band into two companies,—one under himself to attack the main guard-house, the other under Fernet to seize the arsenal of the fortress. Noiselessly they stole out of the ship where they had so long been confined, and stood at last on the ground within the precincts of the castle. Heraugiere marched straight to the guard-house.
"'Who goes there?' cried a sentinel, hearing some movement in the darkness.
"'A friend,' replied the captain, seizing him by the throat, and commanding him, as he valued his life, to keep silence except when addressed, and then to speak in a whisper.
"'How many are there in the garrison?' muttered Heraugiere.
"'Three hundred and fifty,' whispered the sentinel.
"'How many?' eagerly demanded the nearest followers, not hearing the reply.
"'He says there are but fifty of them,' said Heraugiere, prudently suppressing the three hundred, in order to encourage his comrades.
"Quietly as they had made their approach, there was nevertheless a stir in the guard-house. The captain of the watch sprang into the courtyard.
"'Who goes?' he demanded in his turn.
"'A friend,' again replied Heraugiere, striking him dead with a single blow as he spoke.
"Others emerged with torches. Heraugiere was slightly wounded, but succeeded, after a brief struggle, in killing a second assailant. His followers set upon the watch, who retreated into the guard-house. Heraugiere commanded his men to fire through the doors and windows, and in a few minutes every one of the enemy lay dead. It was not a moment for making prisoners or speaking of quarter. Meantime Fervet and his band had not been idle. The magazine house of the castle was seized, its defenders slain. Young Lanzavecchia made a sally from the palace, was wounded, and driven back with a few of his adherents. The rest of the garrison fled helter-skelter into the town. Never had the musketeers of Italy—for they all belonged to Spinola's famous Sicilian Legion—behaved so badly. They did not even take the precaution to destroy the bridge between the castle and the town, as they fled panic-stricken before seventy Hollanders. Instead of encouraging the burghers to their support, they spread dismay as they ran through every street. Young Lanzavecchia, penned into a corner of the castle, began to parley, hoping for a rally before a surrender should be necessary. In the midst of the negotiation, and a couple of hours before dawn, Hohenlo, duly apprised by the boatman, arrived with the vanguard of Maurice's troops before the field-gate of the fort. A vain attempt was made to force this portal open, but the winter's ice had fixed it fast. Hohenlo was obliged to batter down the palisade near the water-gate, and enter by the same road through which the fatal turf-boat had passed. Soon after he had marched into the town at the head of a strong detachment, Prince Maurice himself arrived in great haste, attended by Philip Nassau, the Admiral Justinus Nassau, Count Solms, Peter Van der Does, and Sir Francis Vere, and followed by another body of picked troops; the musicians playing merrily that national air, then, as now, so dear to Netherlanders,—
'Wilhelmus van Nassonwen
Ben ick van Duytsem bloed.'
"The fight was over. Some forty of the garrison had been killed, but not a man of the attacking party. The burgomaster sent a trumpet to the prince, asking permission to come to the castle to arrange a capitulation; and before sunrise the city and fortress of Breda had surrendered to the authority of the States-General and of his Excellency.
"There, I ought not to have read all that long story,—I've tired you out, I know," exclaimed Kate, apologetically, as she closed her book.
CHAPTER XIII.
"Tired us out? No, indeed, you haven't," cried the girls in a breath; and one of the girls was Hope, who had come in softly just as Kate had begun to read, and who now added,—
"It's lovely to listen to anything when you read it, Kate."
"Isn't it!" took up Myra. "Miss Marr ought to pay Kate a salary for the good she does in this history business. I hate to study it; I always get all in a wabble with the dates and the names and the places, and by and by, when I try to tell about it or think about it, I get a fifteenth-century king into the sixteenth century just as likely as not. But when Kate picks out her little nuggets of gold from the mass, and sets them before me, I begin to see daylight."
"So do I, so do I!" cried Anna Fleming; "and another thing,—I am not ashamed to ask Kate ignorant questions."
"Nor I," declared Myra; and then they all laughed, and Myra followed up the laugh by immediately proceeding to ask two or three of these "ignorant questions,"—the first being, "If Spain had possession of Breda, what does it mean by the Italian infantry and cavalry being there to defend it?"
"It means that at that time," answered Kate, "Philip II., called Philip the Prudent, had possession of the better portion of Italy, with other territory that he had gobbled up, and so, of course, he made use of Italian soldiers."
"Who was Lewis William?"
"He was the stadt of Friesland,—Friesland was part of the Netherlands."
"Oh, and what became of the dare-devil skipper,—Van der Berg,—your ancestor?"
"Oh, he didn't come to anything wonderful,—he 'fought and bled' in freedom's cause like most of those Dutchmen, I suppose."
"But there was a family of Van den Bergs who were cousins to Maurice," here spoke up Hope. "Were these any relations to Van der Berg, the skipper?"
"Oh, no,—we didn't descend from princes and counts," laughed Kate.
"I don't believe but that it is the Van den you belong to, anyway," said Anna.
"Nonsense," cried Kate; "if we 'belong,' as you say, to a family of that early day, it is to the dare-devil Van der Bergs, and that's good enough for me. My brother Schuyler ought to hear you give preference to the Van den Bergs. He would be ready to fight a duel with you; for, from a little boy, he has been perfectly enchanted with that story of the dare-devil, and when we were all at home five years ago,—little things of ten and eleven and twelve,—we used to play the story, and we called it 'The Siege of Breda.' It was when we were up at our summer place on the Hudson. It was such fun. We had a queer little cottage on the place, that had a lot of gables and turrets. It was unoccupied, except as a sort of storehouse for fruit; and this cottage we called 'the castle.' A rather wide stream of water runs through the grounds, and broadens out into a sort of miniature lake at the foot of the garden. It was just across this broader part, where it was also quite deep, that the cottage showed its turrets and gables, and we got the gardener and one of the stable men to build up a sort of palisade of bricks and stones and boards all about it. Inside this we made a guard-house, and the arsenal was in the castle itself. Then we knew an old sailor who fixed up our little yacht, made a cabin and hold, where the boys crept in,—the boys who represented the attacking party, the seventy Hollanders,—and we packed around them a lot of dry moss we had prepared, to represent turf. Mr. Brown—our old sailor—also fixed up something that did duty for a water-gate. Well, when we had got everything as near to our minds as possible, we dressed ourselves up in our costumes,—oh, yes, we had regular costumes. My uncle Schuyler said it was a real history lesson for us, and he should do all he could to help it along; and so he hunted up some books that had the illustrations of the costumes of that time, and we got mamma and a seamstress we had to help us make up suits for us."
"And did you take part?" asked Myra.
"Did I take part? Well, I should think I did. I was Captain Charles de Heraugiere, if you please. And oh, the cunning little suit I had,—a regular fighting suit of imitation leather and a rough-looking sort of stuff like frieze, and a sort of waistcoat of chamois skin, and then a dear little hat with a feather;—oh, and boots with tops that came 'way up to the knee-bend. We made the tops ourselves of mock leather, russet color, and sewed them to our russet shoes. Oh, it was such fun!"
"But your brother—what character did he take?"
"Oh, there was but one character that he would take, and that was the dare-devil boatman who stood on the deck and joked with the purchasers of the peat. You should have seen Schuyler as he did it. It was moonlight, for mamma and papa wouldn't let us play it as we wanted to on a dark night, for there might be an accident; but we ran the boat down by some sheltering bushes, and the boys who took the part of the purchasers from the castle stood in the lighter place where the moonlight fell, and that left the place where our hidden soldiers were quite dusky and mysterious. But Schuyler stood in the light, the moon shining straight in his face. His suit was a good deal rougher than mine, but a good deal like it; only he had a cap on, and that was pushed back, and he looked so handsome and bold when he joked and laughed and answered the purchasers. Then when we soldiers stole out of the ship where we were in hiding—What! how could I see Schuyler when I was hidden? Oh, I peeped through the moss. And how many boys had we? Oh, twenty in all,—about eight in the boat,—it wouldn't hold any more; but the eight of them made such a show in their costumes. They were all our neighbors and close friends, the whole twenty of them. Four were the Dyker brothers, and the Burton boys with their cousins who had come up a-visiting them from Philadelphia; and there were our boys and the Van Loons and Delmars to make up the twenty. But, as I was saying, when we soldiers stole up out of the vessel, and I marched at the head of my band, the dare-devil would lead the way. I told him it was all out of order, but he declared that Captain Heraugiere couldn't know the way as the dare-devil who had carried the peat so often must know it, and that of course he must be guided; so I had to give in.
"We started our play at the point where the officer of the guard puts off from the castle in a skiff, and comes on board our vessel; then, after that, we slip down through the water-gate,—of course we don't have any leak,—the Burton boys and the Van Loons come to the shore and drag us into the harbor and make the vessel fast, close to the guard-house. It was just after that, you know, that the dare-devil receives the purchasers, and goes through all that joking and sending the people off, saying that he was tired. And then I followed as Captain Heraugiere; and what do you think!—Schuyler at first wanted to be Captain Heraugiere too. He said he could easily manage it; but it was when he found he wouldn't be allowed to gobble up the two characters, he insisted upon showing the captain the way, and so he stuck to me all through, flourishing his wooden sword on the slightest excuse. But how we did lay about us! Whack, whack, we knocked over the Burtons, and all the rest of the Italians, with the young Lanzavecchia at their head; and then came the great end of the victory, the arrival of Hohenlo with the vanguard of Maurice's troops, and then Prince Maurice himself with his fine attendants,—his counts and admirals, and these were the Van Loons and the Burtons again, who had rigged themselves up in other clothes,—nice honest Dutch clothes to play the Netherlander parts. So we turned and twisted our twenty boys, just as they do on the stage, and you'd have thought there were a host of them. Well, when the vanguard arrived, we all joined together and marched into the town—that is, around our grounds and into the castle, the Dyker brothers, who are musical, playing the national air with a drum and fife and cornet, and some of the rest of us, breaking out now and then at the top of our voices into the chorus,—
'Wilhelmus van Nassouwen
Ben ick van Duytsem bloed,'
which means,
'William from Nassau,
I am from German blood.'
William from Nassau, you know, was the great Prince of Orange.
"And marching to this playing and singing, we entered the castle,—our cottage,—where a table had been set with a lot of Dutch dainties, made by our German cook, Wilhelmina, who had lived in Holland and knew everything about the dear little Dutch cakes and things they eat there. Then, after we had partaken of the feast, the table was carried out, and we danced to our heart's content. Oh, we did have such a good time, and we kept it up every year until we got too old for it."
"What fun it must have been!" cried Myra. "I wish I could have been there; but didn't you have any other girl but yourself in the play with those twenty boys?"
"No, not in the play; but we had plenty of girls as spectators and at the feast and dancing."
"And did you ever make a play out of any other historical incident?" asked Anna Fleming.
"Yes, several; and I think that is the reason why historical events became so fixed in my mind, and I got so interested in reading history. It began by accident, as you might say,—that is, by Schuyler's delight in the Van der Berg story, and insisting on playing it. It's the best way in the world, let me tell you, to play history like this,—it teaches you more than any ordinary study possibly can, and you find that through it you get events and epochs perfectly clear in your mind, and everything by and by spreads out before you like reality."
"I wish Miss Marr would let us have history lessons this way," said Myra.
"Perhaps she will, some time, if Kate tells her what she has told us," said Anna, hopefully; "and you will tell her some time, won't you, Kate?"
"Yes, I'll tell her, but I don't think it is the thing to do in school days; you ought to get it up in the summer, during vacations. It would interfere with other studies to go into all the preparation and work of such performances in school."
"Did you ever like any other of your plays as well as the Siege?" asked Hope.
"No, never; but what made you ask that, Hope?"
"Because it was so stirring and out-door-sy, and the boatman was so jolly and brave, I thought it wasn't possible that there could have been another story quite so playable as that."
"I said the Van der Bergs were proud of only one thing,—this performance of the boatman; but there was another of our ancestors of a later day who is very interesting, I think, and just as plucky and brave in another way."
"Oh!" ejaculated Anna Fleming, with such an air of anticipation that they all laughed, for they all knew Anna's weakness for ancestors; and this "Oh," said very plainly, "Now we are to hear of something more worth while than an old boatman, something probably about those aristocratic Knickerbocker ancestors of Kate's."
Kate herself, thoroughly appreciating Anna's state of mind, went on demurely: "This ancestor was my mother's great-great-grandfather. He was the son of a small farmer in England, and he came to New York a poor boy, with only a few shillings in his pocket; and with these few shillings he started, and, working at all sorts of things,—as a stevedore, and anything else he could find to do,—he at last worked his way up to a little clerkship in a little mercantile house, and from there he climbed step by step into a bigger clerkship, in the same little house, and then step by step into a clerkship in a big house, until after a while, after all sorts of working and waiting and hardships, he came to be at the head of the big house, and one of the first merchants of the day in New York. We have in our family now one of those English shillings that he brought over and saved for luck when he was working on the wharves, and we keep it for luck; and there is a packet of old letters and a diary he kept, telling the whole story, that we have too. Oh, yes, we are very proud of our great-great-great-grandfather, I can tell you," smiling up at the girls.
"But where did those lovely old shoe-buckles and gold buttons, and that old silver with the V. der B. engraved on it, that I saw when I visited you,—where did those come from, if that boatman was the only Dutch ancestor you had that you were proud of?" anxiously and disappointedly asked Anna here.
"Oh, they came from some of the later V. der B.'s; some descendants that had nothing specially interesting about them,—were not heroes of any kind, but just rich old burghers."
"But weren't they what are called the Knickerbocker families?"
"Yes; but you know how that name came to be given to them, don't you?"
"No, not exactly," answered Anna, shamefacedly.
"And I haven't the least idea. I know I ought to know, but I don't," burst out Myra, blithely and boldly; "so do tell us."
"Well, it came about in this way. Washington Irving wrote a burlesque history of New York,—that is, it was a burlesque on a pompous handbook of the city, that had just been published. He called it 'A History of New York from the beginning of the world to the end of the Dutch Dynasty, by Diedrich Knickerbocker.'
"He made up the name of Knickerbocker probably, as people now make up a name for a nom de plume. But at the time by a facetious advertisement, such as Hawthorne might have written at a later day,—an advertisement 'inquiring for a small, elderly gentleman, dressed in an old black coat and cocked hat, by the name of Knickerbocker, who was said to have disappeared from the Columbus Hotel in Mulberry Street, and left behind a very curious kind of a written book,'—he fooled some of those Dutch ancestors of mine into thinking that this was a veritable Dutch name, and that this old gentleman was a veritable owner of the name, and writer of the History of New York, which they thought was meant for a veritable history. Then some of them finding it was a burlesque were seriously offended, and made a great fuss about it; but in spite of all this, the name stuck, and as it was really meant as a sort of interpretation of the aristocratic Dutch character, it was after a while accepted as a title for the descendants of the old Dutch burghers, and so grew into a term for the gentry or aristocratic class. That is all there is to it."
"Well, then, that proves that you are from the Dutch gentry,—an old Knickerbocker family!" exclaimed Anna, in a tone of satisfaction, that brought forth a perfect shout of laughter from Kate, and after the laughter the immediate answer, "Oh, yes; and the New York head of this old Knickerbocker family of mine kept a shop down near the wharves, where he bought and sold flour and molasses, just as that dear old Joris Van Heemskirk did in Mrs. Barr's dear, delightful story, 'The Bow of Orange Ribbon.' In trade, you see,—shopkeepers!" and Kate nodded her head and laughed again, as she looked at Anna, who had a silly way sometimes of talking as she had heard some English people talk of "people in trade."
But Anna, who did not like to be laughed at, any more than the rest of us, retorted here: "It will do for you to go on in this way about family, and ancestors, and all that. You can afford to tell the truth because you do belong and have belonged, or your family has belonged, for years to the upper class; but if you had only just come up from—from—"
"Selling flour and molasses," struck in Kate, mischievously.
"No, I did not mean that, for I suppose things were different then; but if you belonged to new rich people,—people who had just made money, people who had been common working-people, mechanics, or something of that sort,—you wouldn't talk like this, you'd keep still."
"Yes, if I belonged to common working-people, people whose minds were common and vulgar; but how if I belonged to working-people like George Stephenson, the father of English railways, and the locomotive? Oh, Anna, don't you remember we had to study up about Watt and Boulton and the Stephensons last term in connection with our applied-science lessons?"
"Last term!" cried Anna; "you can't expect me to remember everything I studied up on, last term. Things like that don't stick in my mind as they do in yours."
"Well, you ought to remember about George Stephenson, who was the son of a fireman of a colliery engine in England, and how he worked up, and educated himself, and finally constructed the steam locomotive that made him famous, and led to his being employed in the construction of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway. And there was his son Robert, who followed in his father's footsteps and became an authority on everything connected with railways and engines; and then there was James Watt, who preceded them as the inventor of the condensing steam-engine for manufacturing purposes, which led the way to Stephenson's locomotive. Watt was only a poor boy, the son of a small trader in Scotland, and was an apprentice to a philosophical-instrument maker, where he worked so hard and lived so poorly that he nearly lost his health. Do you think that men like these wouldn't dare to talk about their humble beginnings? Do you think they would keep still, or do you think their families would keep still, because they were ashamed of the humble beginnings? No, no, not unless they were miserable cowards and didn't know what to be proud of, and that indeed would make them dirt common and vulgar, and not deserving their good fortune."
"Well, I wasn't thinking of geniuses, of course. I don't suppose that anybody who was connected with such people as you speak of would be ashamed exactly of the 'humble beginnings,' as you call them,—the people I mean are the ordinary people, who have just come up from nowhere, with a lot of money made out of—"
"Flour and molasses; yes, I see—you think the molasses sticks to them, and they pretend to ignore it. Well, all I've got to say is that I do so hate cowardice, I think, if I were in their places, with the molasses so new and sticky, that I should blurt out, 'Molasses! molasses!' if anybody so much as looked at me attentively. But goodness, girls, do you know what time it is?"
"Half-past eight," guessed Myra and Anna, confidently.
"Half-past eight! you geese, it's half-past nine."
There was a chorus of "Oh's" and "Ah's," and then a general good-night and scampering off to bed.
CHAPTER XIV.
It was very late before Hope fell asleep that night. Generally sleep came to her quickly while Myra dawdled and pottered about, until the lights were put out. But on this night Myra, from her little bed in the opposite corner of the room, heard her usually quiet room-mate tossing and turning in a very restless fashion.
"What in the world is the matter with you, Hope?" she asked her at length. "Are you ill?"
"Ill? Oh, no; I'm only a little restless," Hope answered. "I am sorry I disturbed you,—I'll try to be quieter."
"Oh, you didn't disturb me, Hope,—such a little thing as that wouldn't disturb me,—but I thought you must have something the matter with you, you are such a mouse generally. You're sure there isn't anything the matter?"
"Yes, quite sure."
"Not even Dorothea?"
"Not even Dorothea? What do you mean?"
"Well, I didn't know but you had Dorothea on your mind,—that you might be worrying over her persecution of you,—her determination to make you play that duet with her," said Myra, laughing.
"Oh, no, I don't worry over Dorothea," answered Hope, laughing a little herself at this suggestion.
"How Kate does dislike her!" exclaimed Myra.
"Dislike Dorothea?" cried Hope, startled at this strong assertion.
"Well, I should say so; and you don't like her any better, either, Hope-y dear. I think that you and Kate know something about her that the rest of us don't, for I've noticed from the very first that you were very distant to her."
"'Know something about her!' Now, Myra, just because I was not pleased with Dorothea's ways and have held off from playing duets with her, you take that extraordinary notion into your head. 'Know something about her!' Of course, you mean by that, something to her disadvantage. I know just what you all know, that she is the daughter of the Hon. Mr. Dering of Boston. What I know to her disadvantage is her lack of good manners, and that you all know. There, if that isn't enough—"
"Oh, it is, it is, Hope-y, do forgive me, that's a dear; I was only half in fun, anyway. I feel just as you and Kate do about Dorothea; her manners are horrid, horrid,—so forward and consequential."
"But I do hope I haven't influenced you to feel in this way, Myra; that is, that my manner—"
"No, no, I didn't like her ways at the very first,—they are so domineering. I dare say the outside is the worst of her, though, and that very likely she may be good-hearted. But there's Kate Van der Berg, she's good-hearted, and has good manners too; and isn't she jolly, Hope? Wasn't it fun to hear her go on with Anna about the flour and molasses? And, Hope, I do believe that she would do just as she said, if she were a new rich person,—that is, if she were the kind of girl she is now. She would just come right out with the flour and molasses,—talk about everything perfectly frankly, because she hates anything that looks like being ashamed, anything that looks like cowardice. Yes, I do believe she would. But I couldn't, could you?"
There was no answer to this question; and after a moment or two, Myra looked across at the motionless figure clearly outlined in the moonlight, and thought, "She's gone to sleep."
But Hope had not gone to sleep. She was never more widely awake in her life than she was when Myra asked her question,—never more widely awake and never more unhappy; for as she lay there motionless and silent, she knew that she was acting a lie because she did not want to answer that question,—a question that was almost the same that she had been asking herself ever since she had listened to Kate's emphatic arraignment of cowards; for from that moment she had said to herself: "I wonder if I am not just this kind of a coward, because I have kept silent before these girls,—have not told them that I belonged to the new rich people,—that my father was a poor mechanic, and that I—had sold mayflowers at the Brookside station? Kate would have told them long ago, I suppose, if she had been in my place. She'd say I was 'dirt common' and vulgar not to speak of father,—that I ought to be so proud of him that I couldn't help speaking. And I am proud of him,—I am, I am, nobody could be prouder,—it isn't that I'm in any way ashamed of anything,—of anything,—the engineer cab, the workman's clothes, or the flower-selling; but—but, oh, I couldn't talk about it to those girls,—they have never known what it was to live differently from the way they live now, and they would stare at me, as if I were a curiosity, something unlike themselves, and they'd have so many questions to ask, because it would all be so odd to them; and then there is Dorothea now, to make it worse,—Dorothea would take all the dignity out of anything; and how she would go on about the mayflowers and our quarrel, and exclaim and wonder and laugh! No, no, I can't bring all this on myself,—it may be very cowardly of me, but I can't, I can't."
Agitated by thoughts like these, it was not strange that sleep failed to come quickly to Hope that night, and that, in consequence, she should look heavy-eyed and pale the next morning, and that, in further consequence, Miss Marr, who was very observant, should say: "What is the matter, Hope? You don't look well." And when Hope had no answer to give but that she was restless and didn't sleep very well, Miss Marr glanced at her rather anxiously, and said admonishingly, "I'm afraid you've been studying too hard, Hope. You haven't? Then you must be homesick." But when Hope assured her that she couldn't be homesick in her house, Miss Marr, laughingly declaring that she was a little flatterer, came to the conclusion that there was nothing amiss that the week's vacation so near at hand and the New Year festivities would not rectify.
Where Hope was to spend her week's vacation had been a matter of some consideration. She would have gone to her grandmother Benham up in the New Hampshire hills if the distance at that season of the year had not been an objection. Miss Marr, too, would gladly have kept her little favorite with her; and there was Kate Van der Berg pining for her company, backed by Mrs. Van der Berg's cordial note of invitation; and the Sibleys also—the friends whom the Benhams had met abroad, and who had spoken to Miss Marr so admiringly of John Benham's "dearest little daughter"—had entreated her to come to them. Another invitation was from the Benhams' old neighbors and friends,—the Kolbs. All these invitations had been received by Hope early in November, and she had immediately sent them to her parents in Paris, with a little note of her own, that simply said, without a word of her own personal preference: "I want you to tell me which place you would rather I would choose. I like them all."
Mr. and Mrs. Benham laughed as they read these words. They laughed because this was so like Hope. When she was quite a little girl, her mother had thought it would be a good plan to teach her to be careful in her selections, by making her choose entirely for herself what she would like, and abiding by that choice for the time being. Hope was delighted with this plan at first. She fancied that with such liberty she was going to have a very happy time; but after she had made several mistakes, had chosen what had brought her, if not serious disappointment and discomfort, a knowledge that she had much better have chosen differently, she hit upon a little change of plan; and this was to submit to her mother and father whatever was set before her for her choosing, with the provision that they should give her the benefit of their opinions, while still leaving her her own liberty of choice. They were very much amused at this proposed change, but readily consented to its being tried; and the trial, on the whole, had turned out very satisfactorily, the child only upon rare occasions, when greatly tempted by some special predilection, going against the parental opinion. The odd plan thus childishly begun had settled into a fixed habit, though as Hope had grown older it had become little more than an interchange of opinions. On the present occasion, however, the girl had very evidently gone back to her first idea, for it was quite plain to both father and mother that while she had some special predilection for one of these invitations, she did not want to betray it, as she wanted a perfectly unbiassed opinion from them,—or, in other words, wanted to know their preference before she acknowledged her own; and this Mr. Benham decided at once not to give. "I will write to her that she must make her choice quite independent of us," he said to his wife. "There can be no harm in her accepting any one of these invitations, but what we want to know now is the bias of her own mind."
John Benham, as well as his wife, had tried, from the very first of their change of fortunes, to keep Hope untouched by the temptations of sudden wealth; and one of their fears in regard to the New York school had been that Hope would meet there girls whose influence might be of a worldly and fashionable nature. But Miss Marr's reputation for right thinking and right doing had carried the day over all these fears, and they had seen no reason from term to term to regret this decision. It was with no little curiosity, then, coupled with some anxiety, that she and her husband awaited Hope's choice of invitations. She had now been a pupil of Miss Marr's a year, a year in close association with the young people in the school. The parents had seen her twice in this time, and she had seemed to them the same child Hope. Her letters, too, gave them very satisfactory accounts of her school life and companions. In all these accounts the name of Kate Van der Berg held a prominent place, and they could see that this friend was of more importance to Hope than any of the other girls. When, therefore, they pondered over Mrs. Van der Berg's invitation, with its hints of luxurious entertainment, they thought it quite natural that any girl should choose to accept it. Then, too, there was Mrs. Sibley, with her offer of hospitality in a fine house where the visitor would be petted and made much of. If not to the Van der Bergs', would not any ordinary girl choose to go to this delightsome place? The Kolbs could offer nothing like this hospitality. Their house at Riverview was small, their means not large, and their acquaintance, outside the musicians with whom the old violinist was brought in contact, very limited, and in this limited acquaintance there were no young people, except Mr. Kolb's nephew and his little German wife. But the old violinist's heart was full of warm regard for the little mädchen whom he had taught for love five years ago, and what he did offer was out of the fulness of this regard, as the following quaint letter will show:—
My dear little Mädchen,—The good frau and myself have wondered for long time if the little mädchen remembers the Christmas Day when she stood beside Papa Kolb, to help him strip the Christmas tree; and if she remembers, the good frau and myself wonders if she would not like to stand by Papa Kolb again and strip a Christmas Tree that shall grow up purposely for her if she will come to Papa Kolb's house for the holiday week that is near at hand. The good frau will take best care of the little mädchen. She shall have the blue and white chamber with the little porcelain stove, and the good frau will herself make for her the little cakes she likes so well, and Papa Kolb will make his violin sing the music that they both love.
"How can the child resist this letter?" exclaimed Mr. Benham, as he laid it down after reading it twice over.
"Yes; but you might have asked the same question after reading Mrs. Sibley's and Mrs. Van der Berg's, with their cordial offers of Christmas dances and performances," said Mrs. Benham.
"Yes, I might, but I didn't," replied Mr. Benham, with a smile.
"No, you didn't; but you must remember though, John, that to Hope, Christmas dances and matinée performances in a big city must naturally be more attractive than they are to you."
"Oh, yes, yes, of course; and it's of course, I suppose, that any young girl would naturally prefer the fine gay things that fine gay people can offer to the more humdrum things that the Kolbs can give."
It will readily be seen, from this little conversation, where John Benham's preference lay in this question of invitations; and as a matter of fact, Mrs. Benham's interests were in the same quarter. They both leaned very strongly to Papa Kolb's affectionate home offer, but they were both agreed in their resolve that they would say nothing to Hope of their feeling.
In this way they looked to find out the natural bias of the girl's mind, and ascertain exactly the direction that her tastes and inclinations were now taking. But as Mrs. Benham read over again the notes from the Van der Bergs and Sibleys, she felt that it was absurd for her to expect that a young creature like Hope would turn from such attractions to the Kolbs, and she told her husband so. Like the man of sense that he was, Mr. Benham admitted the truth of his wife's conclusions. It was but a step from this admission to a final agreement that Hope of course, thus left to herself, would choose the New York gayeties, like any other girl; and when her next letter arrived, Mrs. Benham ran her little pearl paper-cutter through the envelope, with the remark, "Now we shall hear all about the fine preparations for the fine doings at the Van der Bergs', for I am quite sure it will be to Kate Van der Berg and not to Mrs. Sibley that the child has chosen to go; and I do hope that Miss Marr has seen to her preparations, and helped her to choose some new things, if she needs them. And she must need a new gown or two, and gloves, and perhaps a fresh wrap, going about as she will with the Van der Bergs to the holiday entertainments. I told Miss Marr when we came away, to order anything that Hope needed, if at any time—"
There was a sudden cessation of Mrs. Benham's voice; then after a moment: "John, John, what do you think!—"
Mr. Benham looked up from his desk, where he was busy studying the plan of a new French locomotive.
"What do you think, John? She isn't going to the Van der Bergs'!"
"She prefers the Sibleys, then; well, they'll be very good to her."
"No, she doesn't prefer the Sibleys,—it's the Kolbs, after all. Do listen to her letter!" and Mrs. Benham read aloud:—
Dear Papa and Mamma,—I'm going to the Kolbs'. I wanted to go the minute I got Papa Kolb's dear kind invitation; but when on the very same morning I received the two others, I thought I would send them all off to you, hoping that you would say that you would like to have me go to the Kolbs'. But when your answer came, and I knew that I must make my own choice quite independently of you, I wrote at once to Mrs. Van der Berg and to Mrs. Sibley, that I had had an invitation from some old friends who had known me from a little child and been very kind to me, and I loved them very much, and felt that I must go to them.
I told Kate what I had written, and I told her something about the Kolbs, and that Papa Kolb had been my first teacher; and she laughed, and said that nobody need expect to get me away from a fiddler. And she is quite right when the fiddler is Mr. Kolb. I love Kate Van der Berg dearly, and so would you if you knew her; and if you had heard her talk the other day about the right and the wrong kind of pride of ancestry, you would admire her very much. And I love Mrs. Sibley too, and if there had been no invitation from the Kolbs, I should have been very glad to have gone to her or to Kate. But the Kolbs are like—well, like—like my very own. They have known me so long and I have known them so long that I feel at home with them all the time; and then the fiddles and the music and the Christmas Tree—everything there is what I love best.
Mr. Benham forgot for the moment the locomotive plan that lay before him, as he listened to this portion of his daughter's letter; and when his wife put the letter down and said, "We needn't be afraid of Hope's being spoiled by these fine people, John," his eyes lighted up, as he replied smilingly,—
"Hope is set to a home tune, Martha, that she is never going to forget."
CHAPTER XV.
Dolly Dering was beating time with her fan to the closing passages of the Mendelssohn concerto, when she suddenly caught sight of Hope Benham, three seats before her. Dolly's quick start, and a smothered "Oh!" excited the curiosity of her companion,—a young cousin of hers,—Jimmy Dering, who, following the direction and expression of her eyes, whispered,—
"What's the matter with her, Dolly?"
Dolly made no reply, but continued to stare, and, Jimmy repeating his question, Dolly whispered back: "'Matter with her'? That girl I was looking at? Nothing; what do you mean?"
"You looked so astonished I thought she was a ghost, or that something was the matter with her."
Dolly giggled under her breath, and whispered: "No, it's only that I was so surprised to see her here in Music Hall. She is one of the girls from my school,—Hope Benham. I thought she was going to stay in New York this week with the Van der Bergs,—awful swells! I wonder who she's visiting here."
"Some other 'awful swells,'—Boston swells, I suppose. She looks that way herself. Why didn't you invite her to stay with you, Dolly?"
"I should as soon have thought of inviting Bunker Hill Monument,—though I like her,—sort of—she's stiffish, but fascinating, and plays the violin like—Oh!" with an emphatic emphasis, to convey the inexpressible.
"Like 'Oh'! You must waylay her and introduce me to her, Dolly. I want to know any girl who plays the violin like 'Oh.' I never heard it played like that. Say, Dolly—"
"H—ush!" breathed Jimmy's mother, Mrs. Mark Dering, shaking her head at the two whisperers, as the violin solo began. Jimmy, who was enthusiastically fond of the music of the violin, was now quite willing to be hushed, and, leaning back, gave himself up to silent enjoyment. Toward the close of the exquisite strains he happened to glance at the girl three seats in front of him. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes were shining, her whole attitude expressive of the deepest delight.
"How she does like it, and how she knows music!" thought Jimmy. "I'd like to hear her play the violin. I wonder if I can't manage it. I mean to make Dolly introduce me to her."
Hope was pulling up her little sealskin cloak at the end of the concert, when she heard a voice say: "How de do, Hope? I never was so surprised in my life as when I saw you here. I thought Kate Van der Berg had invited you to stay with her through the vacation."
