running out of it. The brown, yellow, green, and red carts, ornamented
with festoons of flowers in carved wood, which were returning from
market, were the only grown-up things we saw--except the trees, and they
seemed abnormally tall by way of contrast.
Mile after mile, the road to Enkhuisen led on between two lines of
dolls' houses and gardens. Some must have been meant for very large
dolls, but that made no difference in the toy effect, as the great
farmhouses, apportioned off half for toy animals, half for
farmer-dolls, were just as fantastic in design and decoration as the
tiny ones.
Backgrounds of meadows, canals, and windmills, I suppose there must have
been, as every picture has to have its background; but backgrounds are
seldom obtrusive in Holland, as Mr. Starr says; and here the two lines
of toy dwellings were so astonishing that we noted nothing else.
For the whole ten miles of the drive we were playing dolls. The long,
straight string of houses was knotted now and then into the semblance of
a village, but never was the string broken between Hoorn and Enkhuisen,
and though we saw so many, each new doll-house made us laugh as if it
were the first.
I tried not to laugh at the beginning, lest it might hurt Mr. van
Buren's feelings; but he didn't mind, and pointed out the funniest front
doors, crusted with colored flowers, like the icing on a child's
birthday cake sprinkled with "hundreds of thousands." After that, I
laughed as much as I liked at everything, though I was sure the people
who had built the houses took them quite seriously, and admired them
beyond words. You felt that each man had put his whole soul into the
scheme of his house, trying to outdo his neighbors in color or
originality.
There would be a house with a red-brick front for the lower story, and
the upper one, including gables, done in wood painted pea-green. Then
the sides of the house would be in green and white stripes, the
window-frames sky-blue, the tiny sparkling panes twinkling out like
diamonds set in turquoises. But these would not be the only colors to
dazzle your eyes as you flashed through the tall Gothic archway of trees
darkening the road. There would be a three-foot deep band of ultramarine
distemper running all round a house, the trunks of the trees and the
fence would be brilliantly blue, and despite a dash of scarlet here and
there, as you approached you had the impression of coming to a lake of
azure water.
Further on would be another house, yellow and scarlet and white, having
a door like a mosaic with raised patterns of flowers in pink, blue, and
purple on a background of gold or black; and the high, pointed roof,
half thatched, half covered with glittering black tiles.
These roofs made the houses look as if they had bald, shiny foreheads,
with thick hair on top, and gave the windows a curiously wise
expression.
But if the homesteads (with their additions for families of horses and
cows) were extraordinary, they were commonplace compared with the
chicken or pigeon-houses, shaped like chateaux, or Chinese pagodas,
wreathed with flowers.
When at last we drove under a gateway across the road, and the color was
suddenly extinguished as if a show of fireworks were over, we all felt
as though we had come back to the everyday world after an excursion into
elfland.
It was the entrance to Enkhuisen, the last of the Dead Cities which we
were to visit--a strange, sad old town, with a charming park, churches
three times too big for it, and beautiful seventeenth-century houses,
small but perfect as cameos. We drove to the harbor, not only to see the
wonderful humpbacked Dromedary Tower, but to find out whether there were
any news of our boat, before going to the hotel.
A stiff wind was blowing; the sea was gray, and waves tossed angrily
against the breakwater.
Nothing had been heard of "Lorelei-Mascotte," and though we left the car
and walked to the outer harbor, straining our eyes in the direction
whence she should come, no craft resembling her was in sight.
The beauty of the day had died; sky and water were dull as lead, and
Nell's face, as she stood gazing out to sea, looked pallid in the bleak
light.
Suddenly we felt depressed, though Mr. van Buren said it was hardly time
to expect news. As we lingered, the most exquisite music began to fall
over our heads, apparently from the sky, like a shower of jewels.
"The chimes of the Dromedary," said Mr. van Buren, looking up at the
strong, dark tower looming above us. Our eyes followed his, and the
music sprayed over us in a lovely fountain. Had the bells been all of
silver, rung by fairies, the notes could not have been sweeter. In
itself the air was not sad, yet it pierced to the heart; and as the
chimes played I found that I was a great deal more anxious about
Jonkheer Brederode than I had thought. The tears came to my eyes, and
when Lady MacNairne asked what was the matter, I said impulsively that I
couldn't help being frightened for our friend, doing his self-imposed
duty so bravely by Nell's boat.
Going back to the hotel, we were all miserable. Even Mr. van Buren
seemed wretched, though I can't think why, as he said he was not anxious
about the Jonkheer. And Lady MacNairne forgot to put it down in her
note-book when some one told her that Enkhuisen was the birthplace of
Paul Potter.
XXIII
I shall never forget that night at Enkhuisen, or the hotel.
Mr. Starr said it was no wonder Cities of the Zuider Zee died, if they
were brought up on hotels like that.
Ours, apparently, had no one to attend to it, except one frightened
rabbit of a boy, who appeared to be manager, hall porter, waiter, boots,
and chambermaid in one; but when we had scrambled up a ladder-like
stairway--it was almost as difficult as climbing a greased pole--we
found decent rooms, and after that, things we wanted came by some
mysterious means, we knew not how.
It was an adventure sliding down to dinner. Tibe fell from top to
bottom, into a kind of black well, and upset Lady MacNairne completely.
She said she hated Enkhuisen, and she thought it a dispensation of
Providence that the sand had come and silted it up.
We had quite good things for dinner, but we ate in a dining-room with no
fresh air, because the commercial travelers who sat at the same table,
with napkins tucked under their chins, refused to have the windows open.
Mr. van Buren wanted to defy them, but his chin looked so square, and
the commercial travelers' eyes got so prominent, that I begged to have
the windows left as they were.
There are churches to see in Enkhuisen, and a beautiful choir screen,
but we hadn't the heart to visit them. We said perhaps we would go
to-morrow, and added in our minds, "if the boat is safely in."
The Rabbit hardly knew what we meant when we asked for a private
sitting-room, and evidently thought it far from a proper request.
To add to our melancholy, a thunder-storm came up after dinner, and
lightning looped like coils of silver ribbon across the sky and back
again, while thunder deadened the chimes of the Dromedary. Still there
was no news, and at last Mr. van Buren went out in torrents of rain to
the harbor.
We could not bear to sit in the dining-room where the commercial
travelers--in carpet slippers--were smoking and discussing Dutch
politics, so we clambered up the greased pole to Lady MacNairne's room,
and talked about Philip the Second, and tortures, while Tibe growled at
the thunder, and looked for it under furniture and in corners.
Nell was in such a black mood that she would have liked Philip to be
tortured through all eternity, because of the horrible suffering he
inflicted on the people of Holland; but I said the worst punishment
would be for his soul to have been purified at death, that he might
suddenly realize the fiendishness of his own crimes, see himself as he
really was, and go on repenting throughout endless years.
It was not an enlivening conversation, and in the midst Mr. van Buren
came to say that there were no tidings of Jonkheer Brederode and the
boat.
Then Nell jumped up, very white, with shining eyes. "Can't we do
something?" she asked.
Her cousin shook his head. "What is there we can do? Nothing! We must
wait and hope that all is well."
"Are you anxious now?" asked Lady MacNairne.
"A little," he admitted.
"I don't know how to bear it," exclaimed Nell, with a choke in her
voice.
I longed to comfort her; but her wretchedness seemed only to harden her
cousin's heart.
He looked at her angrily. "It is late for you to worry," he reproached
her. "If you had shown concern for Rudolph's safety this morning it
would have been gracious; but----"
"Don't!" she said.
Just the one word, and not crossly, but in such a voice of appeal that
he didn't finish his sentence.
We sat about awkwardly, and tried to speak of other things, but the talk
would drift to our fears for the boat. Nell did not join in. She sat by
the window, looking out and listening to the rain and wind, which made a
sound like the purring of a great cat.
Ten o'clock came, and Lady MacNairne proposed that, as we could do
nothing, we women should go to bed.
Then Nell spoke. "No," she said. "You and Phil can do as you like, and
Cousin Robert and Mr. Starr; but I shall sit up."
Of course I told her I would sit up, too; and as Mr. van Buren said the
commercial travelers had left the dining-room, he and Mr. Starr and Nell
and I bade Lady MacNairne good-night, and went down.
The unfortunate Rabbit was in the act of putting out the light, but he
was obliged to leave it for us, a necessity which distressed him.
By-and-by it was eleven, and the hotel was as silent as a hotel in a
Dead City ought to be. We talked spasmodically. Sometimes we were still
for many minutes, listening for sounds outside; and we could hear the
scampering of mice behind the walls.
"I can't stand this," said Nell. "I'm going to the harbor."
"I will take you," replied Mr. van Buren.
"No, thank you," said Nell. "I'd rather you stopped with Phil. She has a
cold, and mustn't get wet."
"May I go?" asked Mr. Starr.
"Yes," she said.
So they stole away through the sleeping house, and presently we heard
the front door close. Mr. van Buren and I were alone together.
He was good about cheering me up, saying he had too much faith in his
friend's courage and skill as a yachtsman to be very anxious, though the
delay was odd.
Then, suddenly he broke out with a strange question.
"Would it hurt you if anything should happen to Rudolph Brederode?"
I was so surprised that I could hardly answer at first. Then I said that
of course it would hurt me, for I liked and admired the Jonkheer, and
considered him my friend.
"I have no right to ask," he went on, "but I do beg you to say if it is
only as a friend you like Rudolph."
That startled me, for I was afraid things I had done might have been
misunderstood, owing to the difference of ways in Holland.
"Why," I stammered, "are you going to warn me not to care for him,
because he doesn't care for me? How _dreadful_!"
Nell's cousin Robert looked so pale, I was afraid he must be ill. He put
up his hand and pushed his hair back from his forehead, and then began
pacing about the room.
"Rudolph _must_ care--he _shall_ care, if you wish it," he said.
"Oh," I exclaimed, "I didn't mean it was dreadful if he didn't care; but
if you thought _I_ did."
He stopped walking and took one big step that brought him to me.
"You do not?"
"Of course not," said I; "not in _that_ way."
Mr. van Buren caught both my hands, and pressed them so tightly, that I
couldn't help giving a tiny squeak.
"Ah, I have hurt you!" he cried, and a strange expression came into his
eyes. At least, it was strange that it should be for me, instead of
Freule Menela, for it was almost--but no, I must have been mistaken, of
course, in thinking it was like that. Anyway, it was a thrilling
expression, and made my heart beat as fast as if I were frightened,
though I think that wasn't exactly the feeling. I couldn't take my eyes
away from his for a minute. We looked straight at each other; then, as
if he couldn't resist, he kissed my hands one after the other--not with
polite little Dutch kisses, but eager and desperate. As he did it, he
gave a kind of groan, and before I could speak he muttered, "Forgive
me!" as he rushed out of the room.
He must have almost run against Mr. Starr, for the next instant the
"Mariner" (as Jonkheer Brederode calls him) came in, dripping wet.
There was I, all pink and trembling, and my voice did sound odd as I
quavered out, "Where's Nell?"
"Gone to her room," said Mr. Starr, looking hard at me with his
brilliant, whimsical eyes. "I was to tell you----"
With that, I burst into tears.
"Good gracious, poor angel! What is the matter?" he exclaimed, coming
closer.
"I don't know," I sobbed. "But I'm not an angel. I do believe I'm a
very--_wicked_ girl."
"You, wicked? Why?"
"Because--I've got feelings I oughtn't to have."
"And that's why you're crying?"
"I'm not sure. But I just--can't help it."
"I wish I could do something," said he, quite miserably; and I could
smell the wet serge of his sopping coat, though I couldn't see him, for
my hands were over my eyes. I was ashamed of myself, but not as much
ashamed as I would have been with any one else, because of the feeling I
have that Mr. Starr would be so wonderfully nice and sympathetic to
confide in. Not that I have anything to confide.
"Thank you, but you couldn't. Nobody could," I moaned.
"Not even Miss Van Buren?"
"Not now. It's too sad. Something seems to have come between us; I don't
know what."
"Maybe that's making you cry?"
"No, I don't think so. Oh, I'm _so_ unhappy!"
"You poor little dove! You don't mind my calling you that, do you?"
I shook my head. "No, it comforts me. It's so soothing after--after----"
"After what? Has anybody been beast enough----"
"Nobody's been a beast," I hurried to break in, "except, perhaps, _me_."
"Do tell me what's troubling you," he begged, and pulled my hands down
from my face, not in the way Mr. van Buren had caught them, but very
gently. I let him lead me to a sofa and dry my eyes with his
handkerchief, because it seemed exactly like having a brother. It was
just as nice to be sympathized with by him as I had often imagined it
would be, and I liked it so much that I selfishly forgot he was soaked
with rain, and ought to get out of his wet clothes.
"If I knew I would tell you," I said.
"You're worried about Alb--I mean Brederode?"
"Oh, now I _know_ I'm a beast! I'd forgotten to ask about him, or the
boats."
"You'd forgotten--by Jove! No, nothing heard or seen yet. I made Miss
Van Buren come back at last. Had to say I was afraid of catching cold or
she'd be there now. But see here, as it isn't Alb's fate that's
bothering you, may I make a guess?"
"Yes, because you never could guess," said I.
"Is it--anything about van Buren?"
My face felt as if it was on fire. "Why, what _should_ it be?" I asked.
"It might be, for instance, that you're sorry for him because he's
engaged to a brute of a girl who's sure to make him miserable. You've
got such a tender heart."
"You're partly right," I confessed. "Not that he's been complaining. He
wouldn't do such a thing."
"No, of course not," said Mr. Starr.
"It's wonderful how that should have come into your mind," I said.
"Please don't think me stupid to cry, but suddenly it came over me--such
agonizing pity for him. I can't think he loves her."
"I'm sure he doesn't. I always wondered how he could, but to-night I saw
that his engagement was making him wretched."
"You _saw_ that?"
"Yes."
"You're so sympathetic," I couldn't help saying.
"Am I?"
"Yes. Do you know, I feel almost as if you were my brother?"
"Oh, that settles it! It's all up with me."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Whichever way I look I find nothing but sisters. I've had to promise
myself to be a brother to Miss Van Buren, too, to-night."
"Don't you mean you promised her?"
"No, for I haven't done that yet. But it will probably come later."
"Would you rather not be our brother?" I hope I didn't speak
reproachfully.
"We--ell, my first idea was that an aunt was the only relative I should
have with me on this trip. Still, I'd have been delighted to be a
brother to one of you, if I could only have kept the other up my sleeve,
as you might say, to be useful in a different capacity."
"You love to puzzle me," I said.
"There are lots of things I love about you--as a brother," he answered
with a funny sigh. And I wasn't sure whether he was poking fun at me or
not. "But, as for Miss Van Buren, why couldn't she look upon van Buren
as a brother?"
"He's her cousin, and she doesn't love him much," I explained.
"Alb, then."
"She doesn't love him at all."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Oh, certain," I assured him quite earnestly.
"She's sick with anxiety about him anyhow. I had to comfort her."
"That's because she feels guilty for being so disagreeable," I said;
"and she would of course suffer dreadful remorse, poor girl, if he were
drowned looking after her boat, as I pray he won't be."
I began to understand now. Poor Mr. Starr was jealous of his friend, the
Jonkheer.
"Well, I wish she'd love me a little, then, as there's nobody else."
"Do you know, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if she _does_," I almost
whispered. "Perhaps that's what's making her so queer."
"I wish I could think so," sighed Mr. Starr. But he didn't look as
radiant as one might have expected. He seemed more startled than
delighted. "Anyhow," he went on, "you're a dove-hearted angel, and it's
all fixed up that I'm to be a brother to you, whatever other
relationships I may be engaged in. I must try and get to work, and earn
my salt by making you happy."
"I don't feel to-night as if I could ever be happy again," I told him.
"The world seems such a sad place to be in."
"I'll see what I can do, anyhow," said he. "Would it make you happier if
van Buren were happier?"
"Oh yes," I exclaimed. "He's been so kind to Nell and me. But I'm afraid
nothing can be done. An unfortunate marriage for a young man of--of an
affectionate nature is such a tragedy, isn't it?"
"Awful. But it may never come off."
"I don't see what's to prevent it," I said. And the memory of that last
look on Mr. van Buren's face came up so vividly that tears stood in my
eyes.
"I've thought of something that might," said he; and I was burning to
know what when the door opened, and Nell came in without her coat and
hat.
She eyed Mr. Starr reproachfully. "Oh, you promised to ask Robert to go
back with you to the pier," she said. "Has he gone by himself?"
"I don't--" Mr. Starr had begun guiltily, still sitting beside me on the
sofa, when her cousin appeared on the threshold. He was very pale, and
looked so grave that I thought some bad news must have come. Nell
thought so, too, for she took a step toward him as he paused in the open
doorway----
"You've--heard nothing?" she stammered.
"Poor Rudolph," he began; but at the sound of such a beginning she put
out her hands as if to ward off a ghost, and her face was so death-like
I was frightened lest she was going to faint. Then, suddenly, it
changed, and lit up. I never saw her so beautiful as she was at that
moment. She gave a cry of joy, and the next instant our handsome brown
skipper had pushed pass Mr. van Buren at the door, and had both her
hands in his.
He was dripping with water. Even his hair was so wet that I saw for the
first time it was curly.
"Oh, I'm so glad, so glad!" faltered Nell. "Robert said 'poor Rudolph!'
and I thought----"
"I was only going to say poor Rudolph had had a bad night of it," broke
in Mr. van Buren; but I don't think either of them heard.
"Were you anxious about me? Did you care?" asked Jonkheer Brederode.
That seemed to call Nell back to herself. "I was anxious about
'Lorelei,'" she said. "You've brought her back all right?"
"Yes, and 'Waterspin,'" he answered, with the joy gone out of his voice.
"We had rough weather to fight against, but we've come to no harm." He
turned to me wistfully. "Had you a thought to spare for the skipper once
or twice to-day, Miss Rivers?"
I was so grieved for him that, before I knew what I was saying, I
exclaimed----
"Why, I've thought of nothing else!"
I put out my hand to him, and he shook it as if he never meant to let it
go.
"How good you are," he said warmly.
And I didn't dare look at Mr. van Buren, for the idea came to me that
maybe he would not now believe what I had told him a little while ago.
* * * * * *
This morning I scolded Nell before our chaperon for her coldness to
Jonkheer Brederode, when he had done so much for her.
"How could you," I asked, "when the poor fellow seemed so pleased to
think you cared? It was cruel."
"I didn't _want_ him to think I cared," Nell answered.
"Dear girl, you were quite right," said Lady MacNairne. Then she
laughed. "He hoped to make our Phil jealous, I suppose, for his _real_
thought seems to have been for _her_, doesn't it?"
Neither of us answered. I quite fancied last night that she had been
wrong about those surmises of hers; but now, when she put it in this
way, I wasn't so sure, after all.
XXIV
Nell has been very strange for the last few days, but singularly lovable
to everybody except Jonkheer Brederode; and to him she has never been
the same for ten consecutive minutes. Perhaps it is a mercy if Lady
MacNairne is right, and he was never in love with her, though it would
be sad if he thought of me in that way. I should be sorry to have any
one as unhappy as I now am. It's a good thing for me that we were
traveling, for if we were at home I should hardly be able to go through
it without letting Nell or others suspect the change. As it is, there is
always something new to keep my thoughts away from myself and other
people, of whom it may be still more unwise to think.
Nell avoided Jonkheer Brederode as much as she could the morning after
the storm. She said that, as he took no interest in her, it could not
matter what she did so far as he was concerned. She was quite meek and
subdued when she answered any question of his, until they differed about
something. It was about Urk, a little island she had discovered on the
map, exactly in the middle of the Zuider Zee.
When she heard that "Lorelei-Mascotte's" motor had been injured
slightly, and we could not go on, she suggested that while we were
waiting we might take steamer to the island, stop all night, and come
back to Enkhuisen next day. By that time Hendrik, our chauffeur, would
have repaired the damage.
"Urk isn't worth seeing," said our skipper.
Nell asked if he had ever been there.
"No," he replied; but he had heard that it was a dull little hole, and
it would be far better to stop at Enkhuisen till next morning, when we
could get away, if the weather changed, to Stavoren.
"There's nothing to do in Enkhuisen," said Nell.
"No," said he; "but there'll be less in Urk. I strongly advise you not
to go."
"That decides it," said Mr. van Buren, who was stopping on for a day or
two.
At once Nell fired up. "Not at all," said she. "No one who doesn't want
to, need go; but those who do, will. All favorably inclined hold up
their hands."
Up went Mr. Starr's, and Lady MacNairne slowly followed his example.
Whether it is that she wishes to be with her nephew because she's fond
of him, or whether she thinks highly of her duties as our chaperon;
anyway, she generally comes with us if he does. I hated displeasing Mr.
van Buren; but when Nell said, "Phil, you'll stick by me, won't you?" I
couldn't desert her, especially as I feel that, for some reason or
other, she's as restless and unhappy as I am. It may be the poor dear's
conscience that troubles her; but I sympathize with her just the same,
for _mine_ is far from clear. I have such hard, uncharitable thoughts
toward one of my own sex--one perhaps not as much older than I am, as
she _looks_.