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THE CHAUFFEUR AND THE CHAPERON
OTHER BOOKS BY C. N. AND A. M. WILLIAMSON
_My Friend the Chauffeur_, _Lady Betty Across the Water_,
_Rosemary in Search of a Father_, _Princess Virginia_,
_The Car of Destiny_, _The Princess Passes_,
_The Lightning Conductor_
THE CHAUFFEUR AND THE CHAPERON
BY
C. N. and A. M. Williamson
ILLUSTRATIONS BY KARL ANDERSON
NEW YORK
THE McCLURE COMPANY
MCMVIII
Copyright, 1907, 1908, by The McClure Company
Copyright, 1906, by C. N. and A. M. Williamson
TO
MR. G. VAN DER POT
PRESIDENT OF THE ROTTERDAM SAILING AND ROWING CLUB
WHOSE KIND AND NEVER-FAILING HELP ADDED
TENFOLD TO THE PLEASURES OF OUR
VOYAGE THROUGH DELIGHTFUL
DUTCH WATERWAYS
WE DEDICATE
THE STORY OF THE TOUR
CONTENTS
NELL VAN BUREN'S POINT OF VIEW
CHAPTER PAGE
I. 3
II. 12
III. 23
IV. 36
V. 45
VI. 63
VII. 72
RUDOLPH BREDERODE'S POINT OF VIEW
VIII. 87
IX. 108
X. 118
XI. 134
XII. 147
XIII. 160
XIV. 170
XV. 178
XVI. 183
XVII. 190
XVIII. 200
XIX. 208
XX. 222
PHYLLIS RIVERS' POINT OF VIEW
CHAPTER PAGE
XXI. 235
XXII. 243
XXIII. 260
XXIV. 270
XXV. 279
XXVI. 284
RONALD LESTER STARR'S POINT OF VIEW
XXVII. 301
XXVIII. 314
XXIX. 328
XXX. 339
XXXI. 348
XXXII. 353
XXXIII. 365
XXXIV. 369
XXXV. 384
XXXVI. 389
XXXVII. 402
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Facing
She absentmindedly dropped in three, while Page
talking to Starr . . . . 168
We were called upon to part with almost all
the gulden. . . . . . 20
"You need have no hesitation in giving the
boat to me" . . . . . 24
We both exclaimed, "Oh, are you here?". . 42
There was a sudden stir in the garden . . 96
"It's black magic," said Aunt Fay . . 154
We stopped at Haarlem only long enough to do
reverence to Franz Hals . . . 168
A couple of great yellow dogs, drawing a cart,
swore canine oaths against the car . 196
Starr induced them to stand for him, though
they were reluctant and self-conscious 216
I was glad to stoop down and pat Tibe . . 240
Solemn men inspecting burning globes, and
bargaining with their possessors . 254
She looked, for all the world, like a beautiful
Frisian girl . . . . . 288
It was Phyllis who shone at Liliendaal . 320
"Well--have I pleased you?" Freule Menela
asked at last . . . . . 344
It was a ring for a lover to offer to his lady 352
At his present rate he would reach us in about
two minutes . . . . . 388
THE CHAUFFEUR AND THE CHAPERON
NELL VAN BUREN'S POINT OF VIEW
I
Sometimes I think that having a bath is the nicest part of the day,
especially if you take too long over it, when you ought to be hurrying.
Phyllis and I (Phil is my stepsister, though she is the most English
creature alive) have no proper bath-room in our flat. What can you
expect for forty pounds a year, even at Clapham? But we have a fitted-up
arrangement in the box-room, and it has never exploded yet. Phyllis
allows herself ten minutes for her bath every morning, just as she
allows herself five minutes for her prayers, six to do her hair, and
four for everything else, except when she wears laced-up boots; but
then, she has principles, and I have none; at least, I have no maxims.
And this morning, just because there were lots of things to do, I was
luxuriating in the tub, thinking cool, delicious thoughts.
As a general rule, when you paint glorious pictures for yourself of your
future as you would like it to be, it clouds your existence with gray
afterwards, because the reality is duller by contrast; but it was
different this morning. I had stopped awake all night thinking the same
things, and I was no more tired of the thoughts now than when I first
began.
I lay with my eyes shut, sniffing Eau de Cologne (I'd poured in a
bottleful for a kind of libation, because I could afford to be
extravagant), and planning what a delightful future we would have.
"I should love to chop up Phil's type-writer and burn the remains," I
said to myself; "but she's much more likely to put it away in lavender,
or give it to the next-door-girl with the snub nose. Anyhow, I shall
never have to write another serial story for _Queen-Woman_, or _The
Fireside Lamp_, or any of the other horrors. Oh the joy of not being
forced to create villains, only to crush them in the end! No more secret
doors and coiners' dens, and unnaturally beautiful dressmakers'
assistants for me! Instead of doing typing at ninepence a thousand words
Phil can embroider things for curates, and instead of peopling the world
with prigs and puppets at a guinea a thou', I can--oh, I can do
_anything_. I don't know what I shall want to do most, and that's the
best of it--just to know I _can_ do it. We'll have a beautiful house in
a nice part of town, a cottage by the river, and, best of all, we can
travel--travel--travel."
Then I began to furnish the cottage and the house, and was putting up a
purple curtain in a white marble bath-room with steps down to the bath,
when a knock came at the door.
I knew it was Phil, for it could be nobody else; but it was as unlike
Phil as possible--as unlike her as a mountain is unlike itself when it
is having an eruption.
"Nell," she called outside the door. "Nell, darling! Are you ready?"
"Only just begun," I answered. "I shall be--oh, minutes and minutes yet.
Why?"
"I don't want to worry you," replied Phil's creamy voice, with just a
little of the cream skimmed off; "but--do make haste."
"Have you been cooking something nice for breakfast?" (Our usual meal is
Quaker oats, with milk; and tea, of course; Phil would think it
sacrilegious to begin the day on any other drink.)
"Yes, I have. And it's _wasted_."
"Have you spilt--or burnt it?"
"No; but there's nothing to rejoice over or celebrate, after all; at
least, comparatively nothing."
"Good gracious! What _do_ you mean?" I shrieked, with my card-house
beginning to collapse, while the Eau de Cologne lost its savor in my
nostrils. "Has a codicil been found to Captain Noble's will, as in the
last number of my serial for----"
"No; but the post's come, with a letter from his solicitor. Oh, how
stupid we were to believe what Mrs. Keithley wrote--just silly gossip.
We ought to have remembered that she _couldn't_ know; and she never got
a story straight, anyway. _Do_ hurry and come out."
"I've lost the soap now. Everything invariably goes wrong at once. I
_can't_ get hold of it. I shall probably be in this bath all the rest of
my life. For goodness' sake, what does the lawyer man say?"
"I can't stand here yelling such things at the top of my lungs."
Then I knew how dreadfully poor Phil was really upset, for her lovely
voice was quite snappy; and I've always thought she would not snap on
the rack or in boiling oil. As for me, my bath began to feel like
that--boiling oil, I mean; and I splashed about anyhow, not caring
whether I got my hair wet or not. Because, if we had to go on being poor
after our great expectations, nothing could possibly matter, not even
looking like a drowned rat.
I hadn't the spirit to coax Phyllis, but I might have known she wouldn't
go away, really. When I didn't answer except by splashes which might
have been sobs, she went on, her mouth apparently at the crack of the
door----
"I suppose we ought to be thankful for such mercies as _have_ been
granted; but after what we'd been led to expect----"
"What mercies, as a matter of fact, remain to us?" I asked, trying to
restore depressed spirits as well as circulation with a towel as harsh
as fate.
"Two hundred pounds and a motor-boat."
"A _motor-boat_? For goodness' _sake_!"
"Yes. The pounds are for me, the boat for you. It seems you once
unfortunately wrote a postcard, and told poor dear Captain Noble you
envied him having it. It's said to be as good as new; so there's one
comfort, you can sell it second-hand, and perhaps get as much money as
he has left me."
I came very near falling down again in the bath with an awful splash,
beneath the crushing weight of disappointment, and the soap slipping
under my foot.
"Two hundred pounds and a motor-boat--instead of all those thousands!" I
groaned--not very loudly; but Phil heard me through the door.
"Never mind, dearest," she called, striving, in that irritating way
saints have, to be cheerful in spite of all. "It's better than nothing.
We can invest it."
"Invest it!" I screamed. "What are two hundred pounds and a motor-boat
when invested?"
Evidently she was doing a sum in mental arithmetic. After a few seconds'
silence she answered bravely----
"About twelve pounds a year."
"_Hang_ twelve pounds a year!" I shrieked. Then something odd seemed to
happen in my inner workings. My blood gave a jump and flew up to my
head, where I could hear it singing--a wild, excited song. Perhaps it
was the Eau de Cologne, and not being used to it in my bath, which made
me feel like that. "I _shan't_ invest my motor-boat," I said. "I'm going
a cruise in it, and so are you."
"My darling girl, I hope you haven't gone out of your mind from the
blow!" There was alarm and solicitude in Phil's accents. "When you've
slipped on your dressing-gown and come out we'll talk things over."
"Nothing can make me change my mind," I answered. "It's been made up a
whole minute. Everything is clear now. Providence has put a motor-boat
into our hands as a means of seeing life, and to console us for not
being Captain Noble's heiresses, as Mrs. Keithley wrote we were going to
be. I will _not_ fly in Providence's face. I haven't been brought up to
it by you. We are going to have the time of our lives with that
motor-boat."
The door shook with Phil's disapproval. "You _do_ talk like an
American," she flung at me through the panel.
"That's good. I'm glad adoption hasn't ruined me," I retorted. "But
could _you_--just because you're English--contentedly give up our
beautiful plans, and settle down as if nothing had happened--with your
type-writer?"
"I hope I have the strength of mind to bear it," faltered Phyllis.
"We've only had two days of hoping for better things."
"We've only _lived_ for two days. There's no going back; there can't be.
We've burned our ships behind us, and must take to the motor-boat."
"Dearest, I don't think this is a proper time for joking--and you in
your bath, too," protested Phil, mildly.
"I'm out of it now. But I refuse to be out of everything. Miss Phyllis
Rivers--why, your very name's a prophecy!--I formally invite you to take
a trip with me in my motor-boat. It may cost us half, if not more, of
your part of the legacy; but I will merely borrow from you the
wherewithal to pay our expenses. Somehow--afterwards--I'll pay it back,
even if I have to reestablish communication with heavenly shop-girls and
villainous duchesses. Oh, Phil, we'll get some fun out of this, after
all. Anyhow, we shall go on _living_--for a few weeks. What matter if,
after that, the deluge?"
"You speak exactly as if you were planning to be an _adventuress_," said
Phyllis, coldly.
"I should love to be one," said I. "I've always thought it must be more
fun than anything--till the last chapter. We'll both embark--in the
motor-boat--on a brief but bright career as adventuresses."
With that, before she could give me an answer, I opened the door and
walked out in my dressing-gown, so suddenly that she almost pitched
forward into the bath. Phyllis, heard from behind a cold, unsympathetic
door, and Phyllis seen in all her virginal Burne-Jones attractiveness,
might as well be two different girls. If you carried on a conversation
with Miss Rivers on ethics and conventionalities and curates, and things
of that kind from behind a door, without having first peeped round to
see what she was like, you would do the real Phil an injustice.
There is nothing pink and soft and dimpled about Phyllis's views of life
(or, at least, what she supposes her views to be); but about Phyllis in
flesh and blood there is more of that than anything else; which is one
reason why she has been a constant fountain of joy to my heart as well
as my sense of humor, ever since her clever Herefordshire father married
my pretty Kentucky mother.
Phil would like, if published, to be a Sunday-school book, and a volume
of "Good Form for High Society" rolled into one; but she is really more
like a treatise on flower-gardens, and a recipe for making Devonshire
junket with clotted cream.
Not that she's a regular beauty, or that she goes in for any speciality
by way of features or eyelashes, or hair, or a figure, or anything
really sensational of that sort, as I do in one or two directions. But
there's a rose and pearl and gold-brown adorableness about her; you like
her all the better for some little puritanical quaintnesses; and if you
are an Englishman or an American girl, you long to bully her.
She is taller than I am (as she ought to be, with Burne-Jones nose and
eyes), but this morning, when I sprang at her out of the bath-room, like
a young tigress escaped from its cage on its ruthless way to a
motor-boat, she looked so piteous and yielding, that I felt I could
carry her--and my point at the same time--half across the world.
She had made cream eggs for breakfast, poor darling (I could have sobbed
on them), and actually coffee for me, because she knows I love it. I
didn't worry her any more until an egg and a cup of tea were on duty to
keep her strength up, and then I poured plans, which I made as I went
on, upon her meekly protesting head.
The boat, it appeared, lay in Holland, which fact, as I pointed out to
Phil, was another sign that Providence had set its heart upon our using
her; for we've always wanted to see Holland. We often said, if we ever
took a holiday from serials and the type-writer, we would go to Holland;
but somehow the time for holidays and Holland never seemed to arrive.
Now, here it was; and it would be _the_ time of our lives.
Poor Captain Noble meant to use the boat himself this summer, but he was
taken ill late in the season on the Riviera and died there. It was from
Mentone that Mrs. Keithley wrote what was being said among his friends
about a huge legacy for us; and we, poor deluded ones, had believed.
Captain Noble, a dear old retired naval officer, was a friend of
Phyllis's father since the beginning of the world, and, though Phil was
sixteen and I fifteen when our respective parents (widowed both, ages
before) met and married, the good man took my mother also to his heart.
Phil and I have been alone in the world together now for three years;
she is twenty-two, I twenty-one. Though many moons have passed since we
saw anything of Captain Noble except picture postcards, we were not
taken entirely by surprise when we heard that he had left us a large
legacy. It is easy to get used to nice things, and far more difficult to
crawl down gracefully from gilded heights.
Crawl we must, however; so I determined it should be into that motor-boat
floating idly on a canal in Holland.
The letter from the solicitor (a French solicitor, or the equivalent,
writing from the Riviera) told us all about the boat and about the
money. The boat must be got by going or sending to Rotterdam, the money
obtained in London.
A thirty horse-power (why not thirty dolphin-power?) motor-boat sounds
very grand to read about; and as I recovered from my first
disappointment I began to feel as if I'd suddenly become proprietor of a
whole circus full of champing steeds. I tried to persuade Phyllis that I
should write better stories if I could travel a little in my own
motor-boat, as it would broaden my mind; therefore it would pay in the
end. Besides, I wasn't sure my health was not breaking down from
overstrain; not only that, I felt it would be _right_ to go; and,
anyhow, I just would go--so there.
I argued till I was on the point of fainting or having a fit, and I've
no doubt that it was my drawn face (what face wouldn't have been drawn?)
to which Phil's soft heart and obstinate mind finally succumbed.
She said that, as I seemed determined to go through fire and water (I
never heard of any hot springs in the canals of Holland), she supposed
she would have to stick by me, for she was older than I and couldn't
allow me to go alone under any consideration, especially with my
coloring and hair. But, though experience of me had accustomed her to
shocks and, she must confess, to sacrifices, she had never expected
until now that she would be called upon for my sake to become an
adventuress.
As for the two hundred pounds, that part didn't signify. I needn't
suppose she was thinking of it; thank Heaven, whether we worked or were
idle we would still have our settled hundred and twenty pounds a year
each. It was our reputation for which she cared most, and she was sure
the _least_ evil that could befall us would be to blow up.
"Better do it on a grand scale in a thirty horse-power motor-boat than
in a gas-meter bath-tub of a five-room flat in Clapham," I remarked; and
somehow that silenced Phyllis, except for a sigh.
Since then I've been in a whirl of excitement preparing my watery path
as a motor-boat adventuress, and buying a dress or two to suit the part.
It doesn't even depress me that Phil has selected hers with the air of
acquiring a serviceable shroud.
I've finished up three serials in as many days, killing off my villains
like flies, and creating a perfect epidemic of hastily made matches
among titled heroes and virtuous nursery governesses. Scarcely an
aristocratic house in England that wouldn't shake to its foundations if
fiction were fact; but then my fiction isn't of the kind that anything
short of a dislocated universe could possibly make fact.
Phyllis, with the face of a tragic Muse, has been writing letters to her
clients recommending another typist--quite a professional sort of
person, who was her understudy once, a year or so ago, when she
thoughtlessly allowed herself to come down with measles.
"Miss Brown never puts 'q' instead of 'a', or gets chapter titles on one
side; and she knows how to make the _loveliest_ curlicues under her
headings. Nobody will ever want me to come back," the poor girl wailed.
"All the better for them, if you're going to blow up, as you are
convinced you will," I strove to console her, as I tried on a
yachting-cap, reduced to two three-farthings from four shillings. But
she merely shuddered. And now, when at last we have shut up the flat,
turned the key upon our pasts, and got irrevocably on board the
"Batavier" boat, which will land us in Rotterdam, she has moaned more
than once, "I feel as if nothing would be the same with us ever, ever
again."
"So do I," I've answered unfeelingly. "And I'm _glad_."
II
This is the first time I have been on a sea-going ship since I crossed
from America with my mother, neither of us dreaming that she would
settle down and give me an Englishman for a stepfather. As for Phil, she
has no memories outside her native land--except early ones of
Paris--and, though she has a natural instinct for the preservation of
her young life, I don't doubt that every motion of the big boat in the
night made her realize how infinitely more decorous it would be to drown
on the "Batavier 4" than in a newfangled motor thing on an obscure
foreign canal.
The Thames we have seen before, in all its bigness and richness and
black ugliness; for on hot summer days we have embarked on certain trips
which would condemn us forever in the eyes of duchesses, countesses, and
other ladies of title I have known serially, in instalments. But we (or
rather, I) chose to reach Holland by water, as it seems a more
appropriate preface to our adventure; and I got Phyllis up before five
in the morning, not to miss by any chance the first sight of the Low
Lands.
We were only just in time, for we hadn't had our coffee and been dressed
many minutes before my eyes caught at a line of land as a drowning
person is supposed to catch at a straw.
"Holland!" said I; which was not particularly intelligent in me, as it
couldn't have been anything else.
There it lay, this stage set for our drama, comedy, tragedy--whatever it
may prove--of which we don't yet know the plot, although we are the
heroines; and now that I'm writing in a Rotterdam hotel the curtain may
be said to have rung up on the first act.
Just then it was lifted only far enough to show a long, low waste of
gray-green, with a tuft or two of trees and a few shadowy individuals,
which the stage-hands had evidently set in motion for the benefit of the
leading ladies.
"We might be the Two Orphans," I said, "only you're not blind,
Phil--except in your sense of humor; and I'm afraid there are no wicked
Dutch noblemen to kidnap me----"
"Oh dear, I'm sure I hope not!" exclaimed Phil, looking as if a new
feather had been heaped on her load of anxieties.
The line was no longer gray now, nor was it a waste. It was a bright
green, floating ribbon, brocaded with red flowers; and soon it was no
ribbon, but a stretch of grassy meadow, and the red flowers were roofs;
yet meadows and roofs were not just common meadows and roofs, for they
belonged to Holland; and everybody knows--even those who haven't seen it
yet--that Holland is like no country in the world, except its queer,
cozy, courageous, obstinate little self.
The sky was blue to welcome us, and housewifely Dutch angels were
beating up the fat, white cloud-pillows before tucking them under the
horizon out of sight. Even the air seemed to have been washed till it
glittered with crystalline clearness that brought each feature of the
landscape strangely close to the eyes.
We were in the River Maas, which opened its laughing mouth wide to let
in our boat. But soon it was so busy with its daily toil that it forgot
to smile and look its best for strangers. We saw it in its brown
working-dress, giving water to ugly manufactories, and floating an army
of big ships, black lighters, and broadly built craft, which coughed
spasmodically as they forged sturdily and swiftly through the waters.
Their breath was like the whiff that comes from an automobile, and I
knew that they must be motor-barges. My heart warmed to them. They
seemed to have been sent out on purpose to say, "Your fun is going to
begin."
At last we were in Rotterdam, steaming slowly between two lines of
dignified quays, ornamented with rows of trees and backed by quaintly
built, many-colored brick houses--blue and green and pink, some nodding
forward, some leaning back. The front walls were carried up to conceal
the roofs; many of the facades tapered into triangles; others had double
curves like a swan's neck; some were cut into steps--so that there was
great variety, and an effect almost Chinese about the architecture of
the queer houses with the cranes projecting over their topmost windows.
There was nothing to be called beautiful, but it was all impressive and
interesting, because so different from that part of the world which we
know.
A gigantic railway bridge of latticed iron flung itself across the
skyline; one huge white building, like a New York sky-scraper, towered
head and shoulders above the close-leaning roofs of the city; and all
among the houses were brown sails and masts of ships; water-streets and
land-streets tangled inseparably together.
The hum of life--strange, foreign life!--filled the air; an
indescribable, exciting sound, made up of the wind whistling among
cordage of sea-going ships, the shouts of men at work, the river
slapping against piles and the iron sides of vessels, the whirr and
clank of steam-cranes. Wreaths of brown smoke blew gustily in the
sunlight; a train boomed across the latticed bridge; and the hoot of a
siren tore all other sounds in shreds. Creakily our ship was warped in
by straining cables, and I said to myself, "The overture's finished. The
play is going to begin."
Phil and I streamed off the boat with the other passengers, who had the
air of knowing exactly why they'd come, where they were going, and what
was the proper thing to do next. But as soon as we were landed on the
most extraordinary place, which looked as if trees and houses had
sprouted on a dyke, all consecutive ideas were ground out of our heads
in the mill of confusing sights and sounds. Friends were meeting each
other, and jabbering something which sounded at a distance like
Glasgow-English, and like no known language when you were close enough
to catch the words. Porters surged round us, urging the claims of rival
hotels; men in indigo cotton blouses pleaded for our luggage; and
altogether we were overwhelmed by a tidal wave of Dutchness.
How order finally came out of chaos I hardly know; but when I got my
breath it occurred to me that we might temporarily abandon our big
luggage and steer through the crowd, with dressing-bags in our hands, to
hail an elderly cab whose driver had early selected us as prey.
Before getting into the vehicle I paused, and tried to concentrate my
mind on plans; though the quaint picture of the Boompjes, and the
thought that _we_, Phyllis Rivers and Nell Van Buren, should be on the
Boompjes was distracting. I did manage, however, to find our boat's
address and the name of the caretaker, both of which I had on a piece of
paper with loose "i's" and "j's" scattered thickly through every word.
All we had to do, therefore, was to tell our moth-eaten cabman to drive
to the place, show the letters from the solicitor (and perhaps a copy of
Captain Noble's will), claim our property from the hands of Jan Paasma,
and then, if we liked, take up our quarters on our own boat until we
could engage some one to "work it" for our tour. Luckily, we'd had
coffee and rolls on board the "Batavier"; so we needn't bother about
breakfast, as I said joyously to Phil.
But Phil, it seemed, did not regard breakfast as a bother. She thought
it would be fatal to throw ourselves into a formidable undertaking
unless we first had tea and an egg, and somebody to advise us.
"We must go to an hotel before we see the boat," said she, firmly.
"But who's to give us advice at a hotel?" I asked with scorn.
"Oh, I don't know. The manager."
"Managers of hotels aren't engaged to advise young women about
motor-boats."
"Well, then, a--a waiter."
"A _waiter_!"
"We could ask the head one. And, anyway, he would be a _man_."
"My darling child, have we ever depended on a man since your father
died?"
"We've never had emergencies, except taking our flat--oh, and buying my
type-writer. Besides, I can't bear all I shall have to bear without a
cup of tea."
This settled it. We climbed into that frail shell, our chosen cab, and I
opened the Dutch phrase-book which I bought in London. I wanted to find
out what hotel was nearest to the lair of our boat, but in that wild
moment I could discover nothing more appropriate than "I wish
immediately some medicine for seasickness," and (hastily turning over
the pages) "I have lost my pet cat." I began mechanically to stammer
French and the few words of German which for years have lain peacefully
buried in the dustiest folds of my intellect.
"Oh, dear, how _shall_ I make him understand what we want?" I groaned,
my nerves quivering under the pitying eye of the cabman, and the
early-Christian-martyr expression of Phyllis.
"Don't ask _me_," said she, in icy vengefulness; "you _would_ bring me
to Holland, and I shouldn't speak Dutch if I could."
"I spik Eengleesh," announced the cabman.
I could have fallen upon his bosom, which, though littered with dust and
grease-spots, I was sure concealed a noble heart. But I contented
myself with taking him into my confidence. I said we had a motor-boat,
and wanted to go to a hotel as near it as possible. I then showed the
precious paper with the "i's" and "j's" dotted about, and he nodded so
much that his tall hat, which looked like a bit cut out of a rusty
stove-pipe, almost fell off on my nose.
"You get on my carriage, and I drive you to where you want," he replied
reassuringly, making of our luggage a resting-place for his honest
boots, and climbing into his seat.
Magnetized by his manner, we obeyed, and it was not until we had
started, rattling over the stone-paved street, that Phil bethought
herself of an important detail.
"Wait a moment. Ask him if it's a nice hotel where he's taking us."
I stood up, seized the railing of the driver's seat to steady myself,
and shrieked the question above the noise of the wheels.
"I take you right place," he returned; and I repeated the sentence to
Phyllis.
"That's no answer. Ask him if it's respectable; we can't go if it isn't.
Ask him if it's expensive; we can't go if it is."
I yelled the message.
"I take you hotel by-and-by. You see Rotterdam a little first."
"But we don't want to see Rotterdam first. We want breakfast. Rotterdam
by-and-by."
A sudden bump flung me down onto the hard seat. I half rose to do battle
again; then, as I gazed up at that implacable Dutch back, I began dimly
to understand how Holland, though a dot of a nation, tired out and
defeated fiery Spain. I knew that no good would be accomplished by
resisting that back. Short of hurling ourselves out on the stones, we
would have to see Rotterdam, so we might as well make the best of it.
And this I urged upon Phil, with reproaches for her niggardliness in
not buying Baedeker, who would have put stars to tell us the names of
hotels, and given us crisp maps to show where they were situated in
connection with other things.
I should think few people who have lived in Rotterdam for years have
really seen as much of the town as we saw on this clear blue morning.
At first the information bestowed upon us by the owner of the back
seemed an adding of insult to injury. How dared he explain what he was
forcing us to see in spite of ourselves? But, by-and-by, even Phyllis
fell to laughing, and her dimples are to her temper what rainbows are to
thunder-showers--once they are out there can be no more storm.
"I feel as if we'd seen samples of all Holland, and were ready to go to
our peaceful home again," said Phil, after we'd driven about from the
region of big shops and imposing arcades, to shady streets mirroring
brown mansions in glassy canals; on to toy villages of miniature painted
houses, standing in flowery gardens, far below the level of adjacent
ponds adorned with flower-islands; through large parks and intricate
plantations; past solemnly flapping windmills; far beyond, to meadows
where black and white cows recognized the fact that we were not Dutch
and despised us for it; then back to parks and gardens again. "I
shouldn't think there could be any sort of characteristic thing left
which we haven't met with. I'm sure I could go home now and talk
intelligently about Holland."
We couldn't help being interested in everything, though we were seeing
it against our wills; yet it was a relief to our feelings when the Back
unbent to the extent of stopping before an old-fashioned, low-built
hotel, close to a park. So far as we could judge, it was miles from
anywhere, and had no connection with anything else; but we were too
thankful for the privilege of stopping, to be critical. The house had an
air of quiet rectitude which appealed to Phil, and without a word she
allowed our luggage to be taken off the cab.
When we came to pay, it appeared that our driver hadn't made us
acquainted with every secret of Rotterdam, purely in a spirit of
generosity. We were called upon to part with almost all the gulden we
had got in exchange for shillings on board the boat, and Phil looked
volumes as it dawned on her intelligence that each one of these coins
(with the head of an incredibly mild and whiskered old gentleman upon
it) was worth one and eightpence.
[Illustration: _We were called upon to part with almost all the gulden_]
"At this rate we shall soon be in the poorhouse," she said.
"If it comes to that, we can stop the motor-boat at villages and solicit
alms," I suggested.
After all, the Back had had some method in its madness, for on showing
the caretaker's address to a giant hall-porter, it appeared that the
place was within ten minutes' walk of the hotel. We refused to decide
upon rooms until our future plans had shaped themselves; and our luggage
reposed in the hall while we had cups of tea and a Dutch conception of
toast in a garden, whose charms we shared with a rakish wandering Jew of
a tortoise.
Many times since I induced Phyllis to join me in becoming an
adventuress, have we vaguely arranged what we would do on arriving at
Rotterdam. The program seemed simple enough from a distance--just to go
and pick up our boat (so to speak) and motor away with it; but when we
actually started off, pioneered by a small boy from the hotel, to take
possession of our property, I had a horrid sinking of the heart, which I
wouldn't for many heads of whiskered old gentlemen on gulden have
confessed to Phil. I felt that "something was going to happen."
The "ten minutes'" walk prolonged itself into twenty, and then there was
a ferry over a wide, brown, swift-flowing stream. This brought us to a
little basin opening from the river, where one or two small yachts and
other craft nestled together.
"Look!" I exclaimed, with a sudden throb of excitement, which bubbled up
like a geyser through the cold crust of my depression. "_There_ she is!"
"Who?" cried Phyllis, starting. "Any one we know?"
"Our boat, silly. 'Lorelei.' I suppose you think she ought to be called
'White Elephant'?"
Yes, there she was, with "Lorelei" in gold letters on her bows, this
fair siren who had lured us across the North Sea; and instead of being
covered up and shabby to look at after her long winter of retirement and
neglect, she had the air of being ready to start off at a moment's
notice to begin a cruise.
Every detail of her smart white dress looked new. There was no fear of
delay for painting and patching. Clean cocoa-nut matting was spread upon
the floor of the little decks fore and aft; the brass rails dazzled our
eyes with their brilliance; the windows of the roofed cabin were
brighter than the Ko-hi-nur, the day I went to see it in the Tower of
London; basket-chairs, with pink and blue and primrose silk cushions,
stood on deck, their arms open in a welcoming gesture. There was a
little table, too, which looked born and bred for a tea-table. It really
was extraordinary.
"Oh, Nell, it is a _pretty_ boat!" The words were torn from Phil in
reluctant admiration. "Of course it's most awfully reckless of us to
have come, and I don't see what's going to happen in the end; but--but
it _does_ seem as if we might enjoy ourselves. Fancy having tea on our
own deck! Why, it's almost a yacht! I wonder what Lady Hutchinson would
say if she could see us sitting in those chairs! She'd be polite to me
for a whole month."
Lady Hutchinson is Phil's one titled client. Long ago her husband was a
grocer. She writes sentimental poetry, and her idea of dignity is to
snub her type-writer. But I couldn't concentrate my mind on the
pleasure of astonishing Lady Hutchinson. I was thinking what a wonderful
caretaker Jan Paasma must be.
"Conscientious" hardly expressed him, because it's almost a year since
Captain Noble used "Lorelei," and we hadn't written that we were coming
to claim her; yet here she was, _en fete_ for our reception. But then, I
thought, perhaps our dear old friend had left instructions to keep the
boat always ready. It would be rather like him: and, in any case, we
should soon know all, as Mr. Paasma's dwelling is a little green house
close to the miniature quay. We saw his name over the door, for
evidently he doesn't entirely depend upon his guardianship of boats for
a livelihood. He owns a shop, with indescribable things in the one
cramped but shining window--things which only those who go down to the
sea in ships could possibly wish to have.
For all we could tell he might be on board the boat, which floated a
yard or two from shore, moored by ropes; but it seemed more professional
to seek Mr. Paasma under his own roof, and we did so, nearly falling
over a stout child who was scrubbing the floor of the shop.
"What a queer time of day to be cleaning--eleven o'clock," muttered
Phil, having just saved herself from a tumble. I thought so too; but
then we'd been in Holland only a few hours. We hadn't yet realized the
relative importance of certain affairs of life, according to a
Dutchwoman's point of view.
We glared reproachfully at the stout child, as much as to say, "Why
_don't_ you finish your swabbing at a proper hour?" She glared at us as
if she would have demanded, "What the (Dutch) Dickens do you mean by
bouncing in and upsetting my arrangements?"
Little was accomplished on either side by this skirmishing; so I put my
pride in my pocket and inquired for her master.
"Boot," replied the creature. "Boot," pointing with her mop in the
direction whence we had come.
We understood by this that the caretaker was at his post, and we
returned to shout the name of Heer Paasma.
Nothing happened at first; but after several spasmodic repetitions a
blue silk curtain flickered at one of the cabin windows on "Lorelei,"
and a little, old, brown face, with a fringe of fluff round the chin,
appeared in the aperture--a walnut of a face, with a pair of shrewd,
twinkling eyes, and a pipe in a slit of a mouth. Another call brought on
deck a figure which matched the face; and on deck Mr. Paasma (it looked
like a gnome, but it could be no other than the caretaker) evidently
intended to remain until he got a satisfactory explanation.
III
"Are you Heer Paasma?" I inquired from my distance.
The walnut nodded.
"Do you speak English?"
Out came the pipe. "Ja, a leetle."
"We're Miss Rivers and Miss Van Buren, from England. I'm Miss Van Buren.
You have heard about me, and that Captain Noble left me his motor-boat
in his will."
"No, I not heerd." A dark flush slowly turned the sharp little walnut
face to mahogany.
"How strange! I thought the solicitor would have written. But perhaps it
wasn't necessary. Anyway, I have all the papers to prove that the boat
is mine. You did know poor Captain Noble was dead, surely?"
"Ja, I hear that."
"Well, if you'll put a plank across, we'll come on board, and I'll show
you my papers and explain everything."
"I come on shore," said Mr. Paasma.
"No, we would rather----"
I might have saved my breath. Mr. Paasma was Dutch, and he had made up
his mind what would be best. The rest goes without saying. He seized one
of the ropes, hauled the boat closer to shore, and sprang onto the bank.
There was a strange glitter in his eye. I supposed it to be the bleak
glint of suspicion, and hastened to reassure the excellent man by
producing my papers, pointing out paragraphs which I placed
conspicuously under his nose, in our copy of Captain Noble's will, and
the letters I had received from the solicitor.
"You see," I said at last, "everything is all right. You need have no
hesitation in giving the boat to me."
[Illustration: _"You need have no hesitation in giving the boat to me"_]
Mr. Paasma puffed at his pipe, which he held very tight between his
teeth, and stared at the papers without looking up.
"If you like, you can apply to your lawyer, if you have one," I went on,
seeing that he was far from easy in his mind. "I'm quite willing to meet
him. Besides"--I had suddenly a brilliant idea--"I have relations in
Rotterdam. Their name is the same as mine--van Buren. Perhaps you have
heard of Heer Robert van Buren?"
"Ja," replied Mr. Paasma, biting his pipe still harder. Instead of
looking happy, his face grew so troubled that I wondered whether my
mention of these unknown relatives had been unfortunate--whether, by any
chance, a member of the family had lately committed some crime.
Meanwhile, Phyllis stared. For my own reasons I had refrained from
speaking to her of these relations; now, urged by necessity, I brought
them to light; but what they might be, or whether they still existed in
Rotterdam I knew no more than did Phil.
"Mynheer van Buren is a known man," said the caretaker. "You not send
for him. I think the boat is to you, missus. What you want do?"
"First of all, we want to go on board and look at her," I replied.
This time, rather to my surprise, he made no objections. A dark pall of
resignation had fallen upon him. In such a mood as his, an Indian woman
would go to Suttee without a qualm. He pulled the boat to shore, placed
a plank, and with a thrilling pride of possession we walked on board.
There were some steep steps which led down from the deck to the cabin,
and Phyllis and I descended, Mr. Paasma stolidly following, with an
extraordinary expression on his walnut face. It was not exactly
despairing, or defiant, or angry, or puzzled; but it held something
of each one of these emotions.
However, I soon forgot about the caretaker and his feelings in
admiration of "Lorelei." Aft, you looked down into the motor-room, with
a big monster of machinery, which I respected but didn't understand.
From that, when you'd crossed a little passage, you had to go down some
more steps into a cabin which was so charming that I stood still on the
threshold, and said, "Oh!"
"Why, it's prettier than our drawing-room!" exclaimed Phil; "and my
favorite colors too, green and white. It's almost like a boudoir. Who
could have supposed Captain Noble would have so much taste? And do look
at that darling old Dutch clock over the--the buffet or whatever it is,
with all the little ships rocking on the waves every time it ticks."
We were both so much excited now that we began to talk together, neither
of us listening to the other. We opened the door of what Phil called the
"buffet," and found neat little piles of blue-and-white china. There
were tiny tablecloths and napkins too, and knives and forks and spoons.
On one of the seats (which could be turned into berths at night) stood a
smart tea-basket. We peeped inside, and it was the nicest tea-basket
imaginable, which must have come from some grand shop in Bond Street,
with its gold and white cups, and its gleaming nickel and silver. In the
locker were sheets and blankets; on a bracket by the clock was a
book-shelf with glass doors, and attractive-looking novels inside.
"How pathetic it is!" I cried. "Poor Captain Noble! He must have enjoyed
getting together these nice things; and now they are all for _us_."
"And here--_oh_, this is _too_ sad! His poor, dear shirts and things,"
sighed Phil, making further discoveries in another, smaller cabin
beyond. "Drawers full of them. Fancy his leaving them here all
winter--and they don't seem a bit damp."
I followed her into a green-and-pink cabin, a tiny den, but pretty
enough for an artist instead of an old retired sea-captain.
"What shall we do with them?" she asked. "We might keep them all to
remember him by, perhaps; only--they would be such odd sorts of
souvenirs for girls to have, and--oh, my goodness, Nell, who could have
dreamed of Captain Noble in--in whatever it is?"
Whatever it was, it was pale-blue silk, with lovely pink stripes of
several shades, and there was a jacket which Phil was just holding out
by its shoulders, to admire, when a slight cough made us turn our heads.
It is strange what individuality there can be in a cough. We would have
sworn if we'd heard it while locked up with Mr. Paasma in a dark cell,
where there was no other human being to produce it, that he couldn't
have uttered such an interesting cough.
Before we turned, we knew that there was a stranger on "Lorelei," but we
were surprised when we saw what sort of stranger he was.
He stood in the narrow doorway between the two cabins, looking at us
with bright, dark eyes, like Robert Louis Stevenson's, and dressed in
smart flannels and a tall collar, such as Robert Louis Stevenson would
never have consented to wear.
"I beg your pardon," said he, in a nice, drawling voice, which told me
that he'd first seen the light in one of the Southern States of America.
"I beg yours," said I. (Somehow Phil generally waits for me to speak
first in emergencies, though she's a year older.) "Are you looking for
any one--the caretaker of our boat, perhaps?"
His eyes traveled from me to Phil; from Phil to the blue garment to
which she still clung; from the blue garment to the pile of stiff white
shirts in an open drawer.
"No--o, I wasn't exactly looking for any one," he slowly replied. "I
just came on board to--er----"
"To _what_, if you please?" I demanded, beginning to stiffen. "I've a
right to know, because this is our boat. If you're a newspaper reporter,
or anything of that sort, please go away; but if you have business----"
"No, it was only pleasure," said the young man, his eyes like black
diamonds. "I didn't know the boat was yours."
"Whose did you think it was?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, I--er--thought it was mine."
"What do you mean?" I cried, while Phil threw a wild, questioning look
at the shirts, and dropped the blue silk jacket.
"That is, temporarily. But there must be some mistake."
"There must--a big mistake. Where's the caretaker? He came on board with
us."
The young man's eyes twinkled even more. "Did he know it was your boat?"
"Why, of course, we told him. It was left to us in a will. We've just
come to claim it."
"Oh, I think I begin to see. I shouldn't wonder if Paasma has now taken
to his bed with a sudden attack of--whatever the Dutch have instead of
nervous prostration. He didn't know you were coming?"
"Not till we came."
"It must have been quite a surprise. By Jove, the old fox! I suppose he
hadn't got the shadow of a right, then, to let the boat to me?"
"My gracious!" breathed Phyllis, and shut up the drawer of shirts with a
snap. I don't know what she did with the blue silk object, except that
it suddenly and mysteriously disappeared from the floor. Perhaps she
stood on it.
"What an awful thing," said I. "You're sure you're not in the wrong
boat? You're sure he didn't let you some other one?"
"Sure. There is no other one in Holland exactly like this. I've been on
board nearly every day for a week, ever since I began to----"
"Since you began----"
"To have her done up. Nothing to speak of, you know; but she's been
lying here all winter, and--er--I had a fancy to clean house----"
"Then--all these things are--yours?"
"Some of the things----"
"The Dutch clock, the deck-chairs, the silk cushions, the curtains, and
decorations in the cabin----"
"I'm afraid you think I'm an awful meddler; but, you see, I didn't know.
Paasma told me he had a right to let the boat, and that I could do her
up as much as I liked."
"The old wretch!" I gasped. "And you walk on board to find two strange
girls rummaging among your--your----" Then I couldn't help laughing when
I remembered how Phil had suggested our keeping those things for
souvenirs.
"I thought I must be having a dream--a beautiful dream."
I ignored the implied compliment. "What are we going to do about it?" I
asked. "It _is_ our boat. There's no doubt about that. But with these
things of yours--do you want to go to law, or--or--anything?"
"Good heavens, no! I----"
"I'll tell you what we'll do," said I. "Let's get the caretaker here,
and have it out with him. Perhaps he has an explanation."
"He's certain to have--several. Shall I go and fetch him?"
"Please do," urged Phil, speaking for the first time, and looking
adorably pink.
The young man vanished, and we heard him running up the steep companion
(if that's the right word for it) two steps at a time.
Phil and I stared at each other. "I knew something awful would happen,"
said she. "This is a judgment."
"He's too nice looking to be a judgment," said I. "I like his taste in
everything--including shirts, don't you?"
"Don't speak of them," commanded Phil.
We shut the drawers tightly, and going into the other cabin, did the
same there.
"Anyhow, I saw 'C. Noble' on the sheets and blankets," I said
thankfully. "There are some things that belong to us."
"It will end in our going home at once, I suppose," said Phil.
"However else it ends, it won't end like that, I promise you," I assured
her. "I must have justice."
"But he must have his things. Oh, Nell, have you really got relatives in
Rotterdam, or did you make that up to frighten the caretaker?"
"No; they exist. I never spoke of them to you, because I never thought
of them until we were coming here, and then I was afraid if I did you'd
think it the proper thing to implore the females--if any--to chaperon
us. Besides, relations so often turn out bores. All I know about mine
is, that mother told me father had relations in Holland--in Rotterdam.
And if she and I hadn't stopped in England to take care of you and your
father, perhaps we should have come here and met them long ago."
"Well, do let's look them up and get them to help. I won't say a word
about chaperons."
"Perhaps it would be a good thing. That wicked old caretaker seemed to
be struck with respectful awe by the name of Van Buren."
"I never knew before that you were partly Dutch."
"You did. I've often boasted of my Knickerbocker blood."
"Yes. But----"
"Didn't you know it was the same thing? Where's your knowledge of
history?"