2. CHAPTER II.
A DUTCH BELLE.
Harry and Getty were very well acquainted with each other.
Their homes were indeed a considerable distance apart, Miss Van
Kleeck living in a large old farm-house quite without the precincts
of the village, and nearly a mile from the residence of the Vrails.
Almost alone did she live, too, for her mother had been several
years deceased, and since the death of her father, which had
occurred only a few months prior to the time now spoken of, she
had continued to reside in the family mansion, with an old aunt,
who had been one of the household longer than even Getty herself.
The remainder of the family consisted of a hired laborer
and two domestic servants, all of whom had occupied their present
position so very many years without change, that each seemed
to challenge a life interest in the old homestead, and Getty had
not the heart to break up the establishment since the removal of
its venerable head, nor could she be said scarcely to entertain the
least desire to do so. For what idea had Getty of home, elsewhere
than in the old brown house, with its antique chimneys, and its
long Dutch stoop, whence for so many summer evenings, far back
as memory could reach, the smoke of the paternal pipe had
ascended.
Getty did not wish to change her abode, nor did she scarcely
realize her right to do so. She knew, indeed, that she was the
sole inheritor of her father's large property, but she very faintly
comprehended its value, or the importance which it gave her in
the eyes of others, and she had so long been accustomed to deference
to her aunt, that it was with difficulty and by slow degrees
alone that she could appreciate her position as mistress of the
household.
How or when Harry's acquaintance with Gertrude begun it
would be difficult to say, but for several preceding years his
hunting excursions had extended more often through old Van
Kleeck's woods than in any other quarter, and the silvery stream
which tinkled across the meadow of Mynheer afforded the finest
flavored trout, in Harry's opinion, of the whole country around.
It was natural enough, on these expeditions, to stop and chat occasionally
with old Baltus, on his stoop, and sometimes to leave a
tribute of his game with the proprietor of the domain on which
it was bagged. If a string of finer trout than usual rewarded
his afternoon's labors, the larger half was sure to be left at Baltus'
door, despite of all resistance; and then the servant was to be
instructed in the art of dressing, and Getty in the mystery of cooking
them in the way which should best preserve their flavor. Sometimes,
too, the fatigued youth could be induced at the close of the
day, to remain and see if his culinary instructions were properly
followed, and at the bountiful board of the Dutchman his seat
chanced ever to be beside that of Getty, who saw that he received
of the choicest portions of his own gifts. How she loaded his
plate, too, with dainties drawn from dark closets, the key of which
was seldom turned, save on such occasions as this; how the thickest
cream filled the old-fashioned silver creampot to the brim, and
was half emptied over Harry's strawberries, or on Harry's currants,
while with her own white hand she pitched the large wheaten
slices, quoit-like, around his plate, enjoining upon him, in the most
approved fashion of Dutch hospitality, to eat.
Nor did Harry always find himself sufficiently refreshed to start
for home as soon as the evening meal was finished. From the
table to the long covered stoop was a natural and easy transition;
for there the air was fresh and cool, and while Baltus planted himself,
puffing, in his favorite corner, and his silent vrow sat knitting
and musing at his side, and pussy, unreproved, now dandled
the good dame's ball of yarn in her paws, and now tapping it
fiereely, pursued it rolling far across the floor; while the swallows
darted daringly inside the pillars, and skimming close to the ceiling,
flew chirping out at the farthest opening, Harry and Getty
chatted and laughed together—talking only on common themes
it is true, yet at times in tones which might have been mistaken
by one who had not caught the words, for tones of love. And
there
was a time when yet Harry's father was alive, and was a
man of wealth, that the young man had dreamed of love. It
was presumptuous in him, he knew, even then, to look up to one so
fair and pure as sweet Gertrude seemed to him, and one for whom
so many worthier than himself would be certain to aspire.
Yet he could not refrain from hoping, though with so faint a
heart that he never found encouragement to declare, or even most
remotely to hint at the love which consumed him. But if, while
he was the prospective heir of great wealth, he felt thus unworthy
of the object of his admiration, widely, hopelessly yawned between
them the gulf of separation when positive poverty became his lot.
With a pang of unspeakable intensity he dismissed the bright
visions which had gilded his heart, and sought no more to recall
so painful and illusive a dream.
Yet, strangely enough, while he held himself thus unworthy of
Gertrude, and considered that his changed position precluded him
from the right to offer her his hand, he saw no such barrier in
the way of his brother. Tom, he thought, was so clever and so
handsome, his merits were so many and his fortunes so sure, that
he might almost be entitled to wed a princess, and although he
was half incensed, he was not surprised at the very confident tone
in which the young lawyer had spoken of winning the beautiful
Gertrude, if he chose. Harry thought so himself—he had often
thought of it before, and had wondered why his brother had
never seemed to notice this sparkling jewel in his path any more
than if it were but common crystal.
But true love, even when hopeless, instinctively revolts at the
idea of seeing the beloved object in the possession of another,
however worthy, and Harry, although not without some upbraiding
of conscience, had carefully abstained from saying anything
which should set the current of his brother's thoughts in the direction
of the great prize he had discovered. Very great, therefore,
was his alarm when his good grandsire made his abrupt suggestion,
and when Tom so coarsely and ungraciously seemed to
approve it. Yet he suppressed his great grief, and replied truthfully
to his brother's inquiry, for he not only believed that the latter
could obtain the beautiful heiress (indeed, he looked upon
them from that moment as wedded), but he failed to see the utter
selfishness which had so entirely overlooked himself or any predilections
which he might entertain.
So Harry accompanied his brother on his first visit to Getty,
not because any formal introduction was needed, for there had
been a slight acquaintance existing between all the parties from
childhood, but because Tom thought it would serve to put him at
once on better and more familiar terms with the lady. And so it
did. Getty was delighted to see them, for she appreciated the
kindness which remembered her bereavement and her isolation.
So very amiable and cheerful did she appear—so naturally graceful
and winning, especially when conversing with Harry, with
whom she was best acquainted, that Tom was positively delighted
with her, and on his return homeward, he announced his fixed
determination to offer himself within a week.
“Won't she be astonished?” he said.
“It will be rather abrupt,” replied Harry; “she will hardly
expect it so soon.”
“Very probable but when a thing is to be done, the sooner it
is accomplished the better. Besides, it wouldn't be fair to keep
her in suspense.”
“Perhaps you are right.”
“I shan't hurry her to fix the day, you know, but I abhor long
courtships, and these things can as well be settled in a week as in
a year.”
“Perhaps you would have done well to save time by proposing
for her to-night said Harry, compelling a laugh.
“No, that would not have looked well. Besides, it is proper
she should have time to make my acquaintance.”
“And you surely do not think a week sufficient for the purpose
of forming a mutual acquaintance, and for acquiring that attachment
for each other which ought to precede a matrimonial
engagement?”
“ I surely do. Have we not been neighbors from childhood
and does she not know me well enough by reputation? Do not
fear, Harry; I will manage it.”
“But if”—
“No, no—a `but' and an `if' are quite too much in one sentence.
I tell you I have no fears. She may possibly be engaged
to some boor of a fellow, but even then, Harry, I think it could
be managed. Don't you?”
“I do not think she is engaged—certainly not to any one
unworthy of her.”
“Then we are on safe ground,” said Tom, with hilarity, for he
seemed to think his brother equally interested with himself in the
success of his plans. “She seems a nice girl, and I have no
doubt we shall get on capitally together. She shall soon lead a
different sort of life from her present one, cooped up in an old
brown farm-house, with a dragon to guard her. Won't she open
her eyes when we go to the city, and she gets into New York
society?”
Harry began to open his eyes a little to his brother's character,
but the force of education was strong, and he had been taught to
believe Tom almost perfect, and his invincible good nature was
busy in meliorating the harsh views which he was at first disposed
to take of his conduct, and in inventing excuses for him.
Besides, he had a strong affection for Tom, which he believed to
be fully reciprocated, and he did not doubt that Getty would
inspire him with the same fervent love which his own heart had
once felt, and even now with difficulty suppressed. He did not
pursue the subject, nor return to it again, excepting when compelled
to do so by the other, whose exuberant spirits ran wild in
contemplation of the fortunate change which he was about to
make in his affairs, and who could not cease to wonder that he
had never before discovered such an obvious opportunity for his
personal advancement.
The more he thought of his project the more deeply his heart
was set upon it, and so bountifully was he supplied with that
quality of mind which Harry most lacked, self-esteem, that he had
no misgivings as to success.
