University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

“And how dush it all stand now?” asked Burley,
pipe in hand, one December morning, after vainly trying
to unite the fragments of several ideas, that were
floating dreamily through his head: “how dush it all
stand? who ish de patroon, and who ishn't? Has de
Dey of Algiers come yet? Where ish Harry, and
where ish Bleecker, and where ish Getty, mit all mine
guilters?”

This was considerably the longest speech that the
alderman had made since moving the honorable board
that Mynheer Focke Jans should have his weekly half-barrel
of beer free of excise—at which said Jans's
house, the said honorable board were accustomed to
meet—thereby foreshadowing the future privileges to
which the fathers of the city should attain. A categorical
reply seemed to be demanded to these questions,
and it was given by Vrow Van Corlear in a
breath, to the purport that Bleecker Van Ness was

the patroon, and Harry Livingston wasn't, and the
Dey of Algiers had not come yet, and was not expected,
owing to pressing engagements at home, and that
Gertrude had gone on a visit to Aunt Schermerhorn's,
but the guilders she knew nothing at all about, and it
was precious few of them that she ever saw, or ever
expected to see. These answers put Burley into a
brown study, from which he did not emerge for the
remainder of the day.

The last few weeks had been to Jessie a period of
unusual gloom. Added to her private griefs, her
shame and indignation at Gertrude's conduct, and her
sympathy for Livingston under his two-fold calamity,
made up a total of trouble which told rapidly upon
the bloom of her beautiful cheek. It had been rumored
that Harry had entered the provincial army, and was
going to the northern frontiers, to take part in the
war then pending with the French. Gertrude had
heard the story from Derick with secret pleasure, and
had repeated it to Jessie, adding, that she really hoped
he would get promoted, for he was certainly a very
good sort of body, but for some old-fashioned notions.
“And by the way, Jessie,” she continued, “why don't

you persuade your Harmon to enlist, for a campaign
or two? He might distinguish himself by killing an
Indian—or a papoose, perhaps,—and then you could
have it on your coat-of-arms!”

But the scalpel of Gertrude's wit had become powerless,
and her sister listened to her only with silent
contempt. She had now, as has been stated, gone on
a visit, self-invited, to dear old Aunt Schermerhorn,
for whom she had conceived a very sudden affection.
It is true that Derick's hotel—for Derick was still
living at a dashing style in the city—was somewhere
in the same neighborhood, and that he was compelled
to call occasionally on the old lady in gratitude for
her ready recognition of him. But that, of course,
had nothing to do with Gertrude's visit, and it was
really very slanderous in old Van Bummel to say that
her affections were like certain covenants known to
the law, because they “run with the land.”

Aunt Schermerhorn was not a little flattered by
the civilities of the young patroon, and she took
every opportunity to spread the news of his return,
and to comment, with no light exaggerations, upon
his adventures. The town became quite agog with

the tidings, and if Derick had not prudently kept
somewhat aloof from society, he would doubtless
have been lionized beyond all precedent. As it was,
his Scyllas and Charybdes lay thickly strewn around
him, and it required the very skillfulest navigation to
evade the dangerous contact.

“Do you remember, Bleecker,” said the old lady,
during a morning call from her dashing relative, “do
you remember your old uncle Stoffle of Flushing—
that is to say, he was your mother's uncle, and was
very old and infirm?”

“Oh, yes—yes—certainly—of course,” replied Derick,
a little startled, for he knew the Cham of Tartary
quite as well; “ah, yes, poor fellow; I used to pity
him very much.”

“Your father sent you there on a visit, just before
you went abroad, you remember?”

“Y—e—s,” said Derick, who felt that he was certainly
abroad now, if he had never been before.

“How long was it, Bleecker, that you staid there?”

“Well, I don't remember, Aunty, I declare; I must
have been there—oh, a number of days I should think.”

“Days!” exclaimed the old lady; “why, your aunt

told me the other day when I was down there, that
you were with them four months, and went to school
there, and said she so longed to see you.”

“Ah, yes, the dear old soul—bless me—I'd forgotten;
this foreign travel and captivity does put things
so out of one's head; but how is the dear creature?”

“Poorly, poorly, Bleecker; ah, she never held up
her head after that dreadful affair, you know; it happened
when you were there, I believe?”

“Ah, certainly, yes, of course,” said Derick, floundering
more and more.

“She can't bear to speak of it, you know, and you
must not say a word in her presence that points that
way, for she is coming here soon to make a visit, and
you'll come to see her, of course.”

“Oh, I won't speak of it, of course not,” said Derick;
“I wouldn't wound her feelings for the world.”

“She is coming to stay several weeks with her
pretty daughter Anna, whom you used to romp with
so; but, Bleecker,” continued the querist, as the latter,
by way of diverting the dangerous attack, was about
to throw in a few Moors, with piled turbans and
flashing scimetars; “Bleecker—how was it about

that affair? I never could get at the whole story,
and you were there, you know: do tell me now.
The old man—?”

“Yes,” said Derick, with amazing impudence, and
trusting to the promptings of his inquisitor; “the old
man—he—”

“He did take a drop too much at times, poor fellow,
didn't he?”

“Oh, yes, yes, I think he did, beyond doubt, but I
don't like to mention it—and then—”

“Yes!” said the old lady.

“You see—”

“Yes!” was again the eager response.

“By the way, how did you understand it at the
time?” asked Derick, taking a pinch of snuff.

“Oh, they did say, you know, that he was quite
boozy, and set fire to the bed curtains, trying to get
another dram in the night, and before they could get
to him he was a mere crisp.”

“Done brown—yes, that's about it, I suppose;
wasn't it dreadful; why, when I was in Algiers—”

“And now his poor wife—”

“The great mosque took fire—”

“And his daughter Anna—”

“During prayer-time—”

“And those three little children—”

“And blew up!” continued Derick, raising his
voice, in desperation, “scattering heads, trunks and
limbs in every direction—never could be matched
again!”

“Maircy, Bleecker! how did that happen?”

“Why, you see there was a kind of smuggling
huckster, who had a shop in the basement, under
pretence of selling fruit and fish to the faithful—a
very devout Mussulman he was, and liked to be
under the floor of the mosque, he said, because it was
so holy—a mere cover, you know; he had nineteen
barrels of powder under there, besides lots of kegs—
he called 'em fish—the regular torpedos they proved
to be, ha! ha! ha!”—and so Derick rattled on until
the descent of Miss Van Corlear relieved him from
the dangerous garrulity of his companion.

The fates, meanwhile, were up in arms. They
had been seen several times in wrathful conclave,
and important results were anticipated from their
councils. Distrusting their own fascinations, they

had resolved—the two senior sisters carrying it by
one against the yellow curls—to import a pretty
cousin from Long Island to enter the lists against Gertrude.
She was not only young and handsome, but she
had metallic attractions to no inconsiderable amount,
her well-cured old papa having ceased to smoke and
been buried with his pipe, (peace to their ashes!)
just one year before. She had been left an orphan,
and the disconsolate proprietress of twelve long stockings-full
of gold, a perfect little sub-treasury, for the
management of which there had already been numerous
candidates without distinction of party. Fortified
with this addition to their strength, the fates
plucked up courage, and made several small parties
to which Derick was always invited, and Gertrude
was always, by some oversight, left out. They had
resolved, however, on giving a larger and more general
party on Christmas Eve, and as there would be
no pretence then for omitting the Van Corlears, the
danger would have to be openly met. They were
not afraid, however, at least they said they were not,
with Miss Katrina Van Derspeigle on their side.

But other events now claim attention. On a dark

evening about ten days prior to Christmas, although
not at all the season for fireworks, the alderman's
house was once more suddenly irradiated by the
blazing face of Seth. He did not come unexpected
either, for Christmas would have brought him home
from the antipodes, even if he had been obliged to
return the next day. In roaring spirits too was Seth,
and Jessie was as delighted as her little heart, laboring
under its Atlas load, could be; and old Burley
sputtered forth a very coherent welcome, and the good
dame first kissed her son, and then, mindful of his
supper, flew to order off the head of a hapless little
rooster, which had retired to his perch without any
surmise at all of so unpleasant an interruption to his
slumbers. Thus was an opportunity afforded to Jessie
to make inquiries, which she did not hesitate to
do, about poor Harry. Had he really gone to the
wars? and was there much danger? and how long
would he be gone? and had Seth heard, had he heard
of Gertrude's most shameful conduct? These and a
dozen other questions had Jessie rattled off, every
one of which Harry, standing in the passage, had
heard, while Seth, grinning and chuckling, stood
speechless before her. But Harry has entered the
room, and has grasped her hand with a cousinly
grasp, and kissed her with a cousinly kiss; but there
was a flush on his cheek and a light in his eye, and
the trace of a vanished tear that never a cousin need
to have called up, and so Jessie put it all down to
the credit of his lost and faithless Gertrude.

Days passed on, and Jessie was delighted to see that
Livingston retained a cheerful disposition under his
heavy misfortunes. But other days came, and more
delighted and more astonished still was Jessie, and
signs and tokens grew more and stronger, until her
little heart fluttered like a frightened bird in its cage,
scared by obtrusive hand within the bars. But she
would not see, and would not believe, for across her
troubled mind came visions still of Gertrude returning
penitent and in tears, to find in Harry a magnanimous
and forgiving lover.

The arrival of Harry and Seth, it will be remembered,
had taken place in the evening, and had been
unperceived even by the watchful Van Dingles.
Seth, for a reason of his own, was desirous to keep
it secret, and had no great difficulty in so doing.

Gertrude troubled herself very little about affairs at
home, whither she did not intend to return until after
Christmas; but she would be present at the Van
Dingle party on the evening preceding that festival,
and was expected to look in at home before returning
to the city.

The twenty-fourth of December was just such a
day as every whole-souled man would desire to have
it. It was very cold, and the snow came down in
one continuous day-long descent. There was no
earth, no sky, no houses or trees to be seen; for the
air was literally filled with the little flakes, which
jostled and crowded each other in their haste to get
down in time for Christmas. Three inches to the
hour, by old Burley's weather-gage—a huge tin pan—
did the snow accumulate all that day, and seemed
just as fresh and brisk at nightfall in its descent as
ever. But scarcely had the first feathery tier touched
the ground before Seth's bay colts, and Seth's sleigh
and buffalo robes and whip, and Seth himself, were
paraded at the door. “I'll do it!” he said, muttering
to himself as he hitched the horses and hurried
into the house, where he had a brief and laughing

consultation with Harry. Then he bounded back to
the sleigh, and if that and the colts had been the apparition
which their whitened surface seemed, they
could scarcely have vanished quicker than they did,
to the cracking of the flourished whip, while the
sound of their merry bells came back to the ear long
after they had ceased to be visible. When Seth
returned, which he did a few hours subsequently at
the same dashing speed, he had a companion; a glum,
gruff man, from whom the frightened children fled,
for they had gathered around the sleigh, thinking it
might possibly be Santa Claus. But Santa Claus
would come notwithstanding, some time during the
night. Did not they know that? Had he ever disappointed
them? Oh, when would it be dark, that
they might go to bed and pass through an oblivious
night to their Christmas morning gifts! Such were
the children's thoughts.

Seth conducted the stranger at once to his own
room, and having provided him with pipes and tobacco,
those genuine Dutch weapons for killing time, he
left him to his own reflections, or probably to that
more perfect state of repose, a vacuity of mind. Still

white with unmelted snow, he next entered Harry's
apartment, and to the inquiry of the latter, whether
he had “found him,” answered only by a wink and a
snap of the fingers.

“Has no one seen him?” said Harry.

“Only father—who mistook him, I think, for you.”

“The alderman's sight is failing, certainly,” rejoined
Harry, with a laugh.

But Harry seemed absent-minded, and Seth and
Towser went out to play with the children in the
snow. Happy children were they, and a happy fellow
was Seth, and quickly did they rear their snowy castle
without—poor Towser wagging his tail, and looking
joyfully on, little thinking that he was to be shut
up within, to whine piteously through a small chink,
while the children clapped their hands, and called
upon him to chase some imaginary prey.

But the hours passed on, and the short day drew to
a close, and Jessie was sitting alone in the parlor,
pondering deeply, joyously, fearfully. Tears were in
her eyes, and strange thoughts and fearful misgivings
passed through her mind. But her bounding heart
has answered to an approaching step without, and

Harry is once more at her side, with a changed countenance
and a subdued and faltering voice. Subdued
and faltering, although it was but on common topics
that he spoke. The weather, the holidays, Seth and
his steeds—what was there in these to change the
voice of Harry, or to drive the fading hues from Jessie's
cheek of snow? But the twilight is growing
less, and lower still is Harry's voice, and cruel, cruel
are his words—else why those blinding tears of Jessie,
and that averted face? What is it that, with
fixed gaze, she sees—what can she see through that
snow-coated window, and through the snowy air without?
Not a word has she answered, not one single
word for all the many that Harry has so earnestly
spoken, and she has passed, still speechless, from the
room, and entered into her own. Safe now in the privacy
of her own apartment, her tumultuous emotions
gradually subsided, and she knew then, and not till
then, how exceeding great was her joy. What was
it to her that Harry had lost titles and estates? Not
for these bubbles had the wealth of her affection been
bartered, and their loss had no power to awaken a
sigh in her heart. Others, indeed, would say that
Livingston, the wealthy and honored, would never
have stooped to wed with her, but what cared she for
the slanderous world? She did care, though, a little,
for she thought of “the fates,” and she thought of
Gertrude's sharp, malicious wit; but deeply at the
next moment did she blame herself for yielding to
such reflections in the hour of her greatest joy.

But there is a knocking at Jessie's door, and a
younger brother's eager voice is heard without. He
has come with a well-enveloped package, charged
only to say that it is a Christmas Box from cousin
Harry. Many were the envious wrappers that interposed
between the eager fingers of Jessie, and the mysterious
treasure; and when all were removed, a beautiful
ornamented box of alabaster was revealed,
embossed with gold. On opening the lid, glistening
against the crimson velvet lining was seen a
set of costly jewelry, a necklace of pearls, and a
watch and chain of gold, articles which in those
days were unknown to any, save the very wealthiest
classes. Astonishment and delight held Jessie
for a moment breathless, but on looking again
she perceived a small folded note in the writing of

Livingston. There were but few words within, but
they revealed to her the whole overwhelming truth,
that Harry, her Harry, rejected of Gertrude, and
slighted by the world, was still the rich and powerful
patroon.