"And there are circumstances in this case. Besides, they are second
cousins only. And they both look forward to it. I am not one to force
their inclinations, you understand--though, of course, they know it to
be my wish--the wish of both of us, I may say; for Melchior is at one
with me in this. Wilhelmina accepts her future--speaks of it, indeed,
with gaiety. And as for Fritz--though they have not seen each other
since he was a mere boy and she an infant--as for Fritz, he writes--but
you shall judge from his last letter."
He felt among the packets and selected one. "I know one from t'other by
the knots," he explained. "I am an old seaman! Now here is his last,
written from the South Pacific station. He sends his love to 'Mina, and
jokes about her being husband-high: 'but she must grow, if we are to do
credit to the Van der Knoopes at the altar.' It seems that he is
something below the traditional height of our family; but a thorough
seaman, for all his modesty. There, sir: you will find the passage on
the fourth page, near the top."
I took the letter; and there, to be sure, read the words the old Admiral
had quoted. But it struck me that Fritz Van der Knoope used a very
ladylike handwriting, and of a sort not usually taught on H.M.S.
_Britannia_.
"In two years' time the lad will be home, all being well. And then, of
course, we shall see."
"Of what rank is he?"
"At present a second lieutenant. His age is but twenty-one. The Van
der Knoopes have all followed the sea, as the portraits in this house
will tell you. Ay, and we have fought against England in our time. As
late as 1672, Adrian Van der Knoope commanded a ship under De Ruyter
when he outgeneralled the English in Southwold Bay. But since 1688 our
swords have been at the service of our adopted country; and she has used
them, sir."
I am afraid I was not listening. My chair faced the window, and as I
glanced at the letter in my hands enough light filtered through the
transparent "foreign" paper to throw up the watermark, and it bore the
name of an English firm.
This small discovery, quite unwillingly made, gave me a sudden sense of
shame, as though I had been playing some dishonourable trick. I was
hastily folding up the paper, to return it, when the door opened and
Wilhelmina came in, with her uncle Melchior.
She seemed to divine in an instant what had happened; threw a swift
glance at the blind Admiral, and almost as swiftly took the letter from
my hand and restored it to the packet. The next moment, with perfect
coolness she was introducing me to her uncle Melchior.
Melchior Van der Knoope was perhaps ten years younger than his brother,
and carried his tall figure buttoned up tightly in an old-fashioned
frockcoat: a mummy of a man, with a fixed air of mild bewilderment and a
trick of running his left hand through his white hair--due, no doubt, to
everlasting difficulty with the family accounts. He shook hands as
ceremoniously as his brother.
"We have been talking of Fritz," said old Peter.
"Oh yes--of Fritz. To be sure." Melchior answered him vaguely, and
looked at me with a puzzled smile. There was silence in the room till
his brother spoke again. "I have been showing Mr.--Fritz's last
letter."
"Fritz writes entertainingly," murmured Melchior, and seemed to cast
about for another word, but repeated, "--entertainingly. If the state
of your ankle permits, sir, you will perhaps take an interest in our
pictures. I shall be happy to show them to you."
And so, with the occasional support of Melchior's arm, I began a tour of
the house. The pictures indeed were a sufficient reward--seascapes by
Willem Van der Velde, flower-portraits by Willem Van Aslet,
tavern-scenes by Adrian Van Ostade; a notable Cuyp; a small Gerard Dow
of peculiar richness; portraits--the Burgomaster Albert Van der Knoope,
by Thomas de Keyser--the Admiral Nicholas, by Kneller--the Admiral Peter
(grand-uncle of the blind Admiral), by Romney. . . . My guide seemed as
honestly proud of them as insensible of their condition, which was in
almost every case deplorable. By-and-by, in the library we came upon a
modern portrait of a rosy-faced boy in a blue suit, who held (strange
combination!) a large ribstone pippin in one hand and a cricket bat in
the other--a picture altogether of such glaring demerit that I wondered
for a moment why it hung so conspicuously over the fireplace, while
worthier paintings were elbowed into obscure corners. Then with a
sudden inkling I glanced at Uncle Melchior. He nodded gravely.
"That is Fritz."
I pulled out my watch. "I believe," I said, "it must be time for me to
bid your brother good-bye."
"You need be in no hurry," said Miss Wilhelmina's voice behind me.
"The last train to Aber has gone at least ten minutes since.
You must dine and sleep with us to-night."
I awoke next morning between sheets of sweet-smelling linen in a carved
four-post bed, across the head-board of which ran the motto "STEMMATA
QVID FACIVNT" in faded letters of gilt. If the appearance of the room,
with its tattered hangings and rickety furniture, had counted for
anything, my dreams should certainly have been haunted. But, as a
matter of fact, I never slept better. Possibly the lightness of the
dinner (cooked by the small handmaid Lobelia) had something to do with
it; possibly, too, the infectious somnolence of the two Admirals, who
spoke but little during the meal, and nodded, without attempt at
dissimulation, over the dessert. At any rate, shortly after nine
o'clock--when Miss Wilhelmina brought out a heavy Church Service, and
Uncle Melchior read the lesson and collect for the day and a few
prayers, including the one "For those at Sea"--I had felt quite ready
for bed. And now, thanks to a cold compress, my ankle had mended
considerably. I descended to breakfast in very cheerful mind, and found
Miss Wilhelmina alone at the table.
"Uncle Peter," she explained, "rarely comes down before mid-day; and
Uncle Melchior breakfasts in his room. He is busy with the accounts."
"So early?"