TWO DUTCH BEAUTIES.
“Git eout,” said Boston, executing another flourish as he disappeared.
“Two days, umph. Where will you be in two days, I should like to know?
Now to business.”
He took up the pack and departed from head-quarters, going out upon the
parade. There he was besieged by a score of Dutchmen, several of whom
reproached him with bad faith in previous bargains, but did not fail to
buy; indeed, Boston Bainbridge was gifted by nature with that shrewdness
in a bargain which is characteristic of that famous town from whence he
took his name; so gifted, indeed, that one of his own countrymen, who
had been cheated by him, gave him the name, and it had stuck to him ever
after.
Getting rid of his purchasers, he carried his diminished pack to the door
of a house more pretentious than the others, situated upon the river
bank. His knock brought to the door a Teutonic damsel, who started back
in undisguised dismay at the sight of the hawker.
“Hist, Katrine,” said he; “don’t make a row. How are you?”
“What do you want, Boston?” replied the girl, quickly. “I will not join
any scheme against the peace of my cousin.”
“Sho, now, who asked you? It seems to me, my dear, that you don’t seem
glad to see me, after so long a time.”
“I ain’t. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to come here? You were in trouble
enough before, cheat that you are; but now—”
“Well, what now?”
“I won’t tell. It’s enough for you to know that something besides a
broken head will be yours if you stay. Take up your pack, for heaven’s
sake, and be off about your business.”
Boston passed his arm about the waist of the buxom girl, and led her into
the kitchen. There he dropped his pack, drew her down upon his knee,
and kissed her with hearty good-will. She struggled desperately, uttered
a good many protests, and ended by returning his kisses in right good
earnest.
“Dere now,” said Katrine, in her pretty English, just enough touched with
the Teutonic element to give it a zest, “I hope you be satisfied. Now
tell me why you come here? Be quiet, can’t you?”
The last exclamation was elicited by an attempt on the part of Boston to
kiss her again. This she resisted, as in duty bound, until out of breath,
and then yielded as before.
“You want to know why I am here. I came upon that which you would have
sent me away on a while ago—business, and to see you.”
“Me! Far enough from Good Hope you would be, if only poor Katrine brought
you here. Confess, now, you have other business?”
“Of course; I said so. _Plenty_ of business, and you must help me,
Katrine. But first, tell me what you meant by saying I should have
something besides my head broken?”
“Just your neck, that’s all.”
“That ain’t much, Katrine.”
“No, dat ain’t much, or you wouldn’t risk it so many times every day. I
tell you to go away.”
“You haven’t told me why.”
“I won’t tell, either.”
“Then I won’t go. I am not going to run away from a shadow.”
“Dis no shadow; you will be taken as a spy.”
“Sho; we ain’t at war with the Dutch. No saying how soon we may be,
though; besides, I don’t mind telling you that I have been before the
commandant to-day, and was pretty thoroughly searched, too. What does it
matter? They didn’t find any thing, though. Where is your cousin?”
“I knew you would come to that, Boston; but it is no use. I won’t—I
_won’t_—I WON’T! You needn’t ask me.”
“You won’t—you _won’t_—you WON’T! and I needn’t ask you. That’s pretty
strong. Pray, before you refuse any thing, wait till you are asked. Do
you think I want to hurt your cousin?”
“I don’t know,” sobbed poor Katrine, “I don’t think you would; but I love
my cousin.”
“So do I!”
“What!”
“I love her just as every man who ever saw her loves her, as I love
a beautiful picture or a clear night, or as something holy and pure,
entirely beyond my reach. As a lovely piece of God’s handiwork, I admire
her—but she would not do for every-day use. I have some one in my mind
who would suit me better.”
“Who?” asked Katrine, quickly.
“I don’t like to tell; you might not like it.”
“Never mind,” said she, struggling away from him. “Don’t touch me again;
I don’t want to know her name.”
“Oh, but you must hear it,” replied the other, “I’ll tell it now, just to
spite you. Her name is—”
“I won’t hear,” cried the girl, putting her fingers in her ears—“I won’t
hear. Don’t you try for to tell me.”
“She is a pretty girl, I tell you,” said Boston, with a malicious twinkle
in his eyes, “and you don’t know how I love her—you don’t want to hear
her name?”
“No,” said Katrine, with a quiver of the lip, “I won’t hear it.”
“I’ve a good mind not to tell you, though I know you are dying to hear
it. Yes, I will; her name is—” Katrine took her fingers partly out of her
ears.
“A Dutch one,” went on Bainbridge. The girl again stopped her ears.
“But a pretty name for all that,” said Boston. “You don’t want to hear
it; then I’ll tell it. I call her _Katrine_!”
“What’s her other name?”
“Veeder.”
“_Me!_ Oh, you beast—you been fooling me all dis time. You lie,
_dreadful_; I don’t know what may happen to you; but, after all, I am
glad you said Katrine, and I am glad you said Veeder, for I don’t know
what I should do if you were to fall in love with any one else, you dear,
cheating, bundling old vagabond!”
With these somewhat contradictory epithets, Katrine kissed him, then and
there.
“Let’s get back to what we were talking of before, my dear,” said Boston.
“I can’t afford too much time here. Where is Theresa?”
“Somewhere about the house.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know, Boston; promise me—promise poor Katrine that you will not
lead her into any rash things, which may make her father angry; he is
none too kind to her since she saw dat young lieutenant, and they learned
to love each other. Dat’s de same time you and me tried it, you dear old
swindler.”
“The very time. Now, I ain’t going to make no rash promises. I don’t know
what _may_ happen; but, this I will promise—through my means, no harm
shall come to the gal. I like her for herself, and I like her for the
sake of Willie, who is the best young fellow I know.”
A clear, rich voice sounded at this moment in a merry song. Katrine held
up her hand.
“That’s her; who could have the heart to do her a wrong? Ah; she is
coming in here.”
The door was thrown open, and the singer stood upon the threshold like
a picture in a frame—a beautiful picture, too. Theresa Van Curter was
a rare type of her style of beauty—the blonde. Her fair hair, lustrous
and waving, was put back from a white forehead, and confined at the back
with an antique comb; her dress was suited to the station in which she
was placed, partaking something of the Indian character, and giving free
play to her limbs, a broad hat, which she had been wearing in her stroll
through the forest, was swung upon her arm, while her hand clasped a
bouquet of wild flowers she had gathered. She started in some surprise at
the appearance of Boston, and then, dropping the flowers and hat to the
floor, sprung forward.
“Oh, sir, you here! Have you any news?”
She paused in some confusion.
“You needn’t go on,” said Boston, “I never keep a lady waiting. I have a
letter for you.”
Theresa put out her hand quickly.
“It must be from _him_!”
“Yes, it’s from _him_. Your father tried hard to find it. He would give
me both Jerusalem and Jericho if he knew I had it. You see I calculated
on being searched, and hid the paper.”
“You did?”
“Yes, I did. Have you got such a thing as a knife around here? Thank you,
Katrine. What a famous little house-keeper you’ll make, having every
thing so handy about you! Take hold of my old cap and help me.”
A few moments’ work about the lining of the old hat which the hawker had
worn revealed a letter, which he took and handed to Theresa. She turned
away to the window, and read it hastily. A shade passed over her fine
face as she read.
“Is he well?” she asked, turning to Boston, who was engaged in a
flirtation with Katrine.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. You see he is out of spirits on your account, and that
runs him down some. But he is hearty. Just send him a cheery word, and
all will be well in the twinkling of an eye.”
“I am going to my room now, and shall write an answer to this. You must
remain until I come back. I shall not be long.”
She hurried away quickly, leaving Boston with Katrine—and they sat down
by the casement. They quarreled, and “made up” again, several times,
before Theresa appeared with an answer to the note.
“I have a little to say to you. Your father took me to-day, and made me
confess that I had a message to you.”
“Oh dear! You did not show him that letter?”
“Not a bit of it. But I told him that the message was verbal, and gave
him one of my own making up. Sounded natural enough. Faithful unto death,
and that sort of stuff. You understand.”
“And did not Willie send any such message to me?”
“A thousand; but I couldn’t think of half he said, if I were to spend a
week in meditation on the subject. You will take them all for granted.”
“I fancy that Willie had better change his messenger,” said Theresa, with
a pout. “I am sure he might do better.”
“I am sorry to say that _I_ think you are wrong,” replied Boston, coolly
stroking his beard. “There ain’t another man in the five provinces that
would do for you what I’ve done, time and again.”
“I am sorry I said that, Boston,” said Theresa, relenting quickly. “I
know you are faithful and true, but you ought to remember. Was my father
_very_ angry?”
“Very particularly angry,” replied Boston. “Looked as if he wanted to eat
all the tribe of Yankees, beginning with me.”
“Was he angry at me?”
“I calculate he _was_. I don’t want no one to be angrier with me, I
guess. He was _awful_ mad.”
“Then you had better go away. But first open your pack and let me get
what I need. We have waited a long time for you.”
“That’s because you can trust me. You know that, though I will beat Dutch
_men_ sometimes, I never try to beat women.”
“What a twister,” cried Katrine.
“Now don’t you put in at all, Katrine. I won’t have it. Let me trade with
Miss Theresa in my own way. You know I won’t try to cheat her.”
“But you do some women.”
“In trade I might. You stop talking, or the dress I am going to sell you
will fall to pieces in washing.”
The girl was bending over the pack when the commandant entered. He looked
a little angry when he saw the peddler.
“Don’t attempt to ply your trade here, sir. Go elsewhere.”
“Why, squire, as to that, the way I look at it is this: You gave me two
days to trade, and you didn’t say _where_ I should go in particular. You
didn’t buy any thing, and I thought your daughter might want a few traps.”
“Where do you intend to pass the night?”
“I don’t know. But surely some one will be glad to entertain me, and take
some of my wares in consideration. I’ve picked up a good many furs since
I came out here, and they are getting heavy. I can’t travel far in a day.”
“You should have a horse,” said Theresa, looking up from the pack, which
she was turning over after a woman’s fashion.
“I _did_ have one when I came, but old Paul Swedlepipe wouldn’t take ‘no’
for an answer, but would have him.”
“I’ll wager my commission that he paid for the horse,” said Van Curter,
with a laugh. “How much did he give you?”
“Seventy-five guilders. I look upon it in the light of a praiseworthy
action—_giving_ that hoss away.”
“Giving it away! S’death, man, I have a dozen horses, and you may have
the best of them for seventy-five guilders.”
“I’ll take a look into your stable before I go away,” said Boston. “In
the mean time, I’ve got something I want _you_ to look at.” He tumbled
over the wares and took out a pair of heavy spurs. “Now look at that,”
he cried, in a tone of exultant admiration. “Did you ever, in your born
days, see sech a pair of spurs as that? No you didn’t, so you needn’t say
it. I don’t say that they are the best pair of spurs in the Colonies, but
I put it to you, squire, can you put your finger upon a pair as good,
anywhere? If you can, I should be proud to know it.”
Van Curter took up the spurs and looked at them closely.
“Now tell me,” said he, “where is the cheat in this pair of spurs. I
take it for granted that there is such a thing about it, since a Yankee
brought them. Is it in the price, or in the articles themselves?”
“Oh, as to that,” replied Boston, with an air of injured innocence, “I
don’t say any thing. You will have it that there is a cheat in every
thing I offer for sale; but, if there is one there, _you_ can’t find it.”
Van Curter laughed again.
“Come now,” he said, “I am willing to take the spurs, and at your price,
too, if you will tell me just where the cheat is to be?”
“You will take them any way?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll tell you; or, rather, it won’t be necessary to tell you any
more than the price.”
“And what is the price?”
“Forty guilders.”
“Hein!” shouted Van Curter, breaking into Dutch. “Do you mean, seriously
and gravely, to ask me forty guilders for a pair of spurs not worth ten?”
“You wanted to know where the cheat was—in the spurs or the price. You’ve
got it. It’s in the _price_.”
“Der tuyvel! Hold; here is your money. And now take away your pack, or
you will ruin my house. Go quickly.”
“I was thinking to wait,” said Boston, coolly buttoning up the cash in
his breeches-pocket, “until the lady has made her selections; she don’t
seem to have finished.”
“Make your purchases quickly, Theresa, and come with me. I wish to speak
with you. Do not delay.”
Theresa gathered up her purchases and demanded the price. He gave such a
moderate one, even for him, that Van Curter was astonished, and made no
attempt to make the price less.
“You have some conscience yet, Bainbridge,” he said. “Here is your money.
Come, Theresa.”
The girl followed him from the room, casting a glance back at the
peddler, who had stooped over his pack, and was throwing out various
articles, at the bidding of Katrine.
“Do you know what I will bring from Boston when I come again?” said he.
“No,” said Katrine, with a smile. “What?”
“A ring and a minister.”
“What for?” asked Katrine, in sublime unconsciousness.
“If you don’t know now you will know then,” was the answer. “You’d better
have this dress made up against that time.” With this he kissed her
again, arranged his pack, and left the house, making his way back to the
house of Paul Swedlepipe.