# The Knickerbocker Gallery/A Dutch Belle

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P. Hamilton Myers
A Dutch Belle.
FROM AN UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPT.
By P. Hamilton Myers.
Baltus Van Kleeck left the world without disposing of that portion of it which he claimed to own, and when his pretty daughter Getty became, by operation of law, sole proprietress of several square miles of the terrestrial globe, without any guardian or man of business to guide or instruct her in its management, her position was one of no little embarrassment. Not that she would have so regarded it had she been left quite to herself in exercising her sovereignty, for Getty was an easy, good-natured soul, who said yes to every body's advice, and to all applications for favors.
Not a tenant but would have had his rent lowered, or his house repaired, or some privilege granted, or restriction removed, had it not been for the perpetual interference of Aunt Becky, a shrivelled, nervous old lady, who was kept in a continual state of excitement by the fear that her niece would be imposed upon. "Do n't you do it, Getty!" were the words with which she usually burst in upon these conferences, spectacles on nose, without waiting to hear the specific subject of negotiation.
"I'll tell you what, Aunt," said the heiress, one day, after one of these interviews, from which the applicant had retired discomfited by the very first gleam of Madame Becky's glasses, "I must have an agent to manage these matters, for they are quite beyond my comprehension. What with farms to hire, and farms to sell, and ​stock to be disposed of, and rents to be collected, I shall go crazy; I know I shall. I must have an agent."
"What for, then, would you have an agent?" said the dame, in a loud key, scowling meanwhile over the black rims of her spectacles. "To cheat you out of every thing, and grow rich on your money, hey?"
"No, Aunt; some good, reliable man———"
"Good, reliable fiddlestick, Getty!"
"I say no, Aunt."
"I say yes, child. He will charge you half for taking care of your property; and he'll run away with the rest. Don't talk to me about agents."
Getty had never divested herself of the dread with which, from childhood, she had regarded her scolding relative, and so, without fully resolving either to carry or yield the point, she sought to escape further altercation, at present, by not pressing it.
"But these repairs, aunt," she said, "which are so much needed for these poor men?"
"It is no such thing! There are no repairs wanted. Why, one would think the houses and fences had all tumbled down the moment poor Baltus was gone. It is no such thing, I say. They are well enough. I have been in every house on the estate within a fortnight, and they are well enough."
"But Mr. Jones, who has eight children, can 't make his rent out of the farm."
"Let him give it up, then, to some one who can What business has he with so many children?"
"And Mr. Smith has lost one of his best oxen."
"He must take better care of his oxen, then. He need not expect us to pay him for it; I can tell him that."
"But I gave him ten dollars, at all events," replied Getty, not without alarm.
"Ten dollars, child! Well now, did ever any body hear the like of that? Ten dollars to that idle, whimpering fellow! Why, Getty, you will be in the poor-house in a year, if that is the way you are going on; that you will. Ten dollars!"
​Becky could hardly throw accent enough upon these two words to express her appreciation of the magnitude of the waste.
"I dare say it was too much," said Getty, who had always been accustomed to give way to her imperious aunt, and had not the courage to disenthral herself from her tyranny, "but he told a very pitiful story."
"Yes, yes! they'll tell pitiful stories enough, if they can only find any one silly enough to believe them. But I'll see to it that there is no more such throwing away of Baltus's money. Give me the key!"
Getty submissively took from a side-pocket a small bunch of keys, and slipping the smallest off the steel-ring which held them together, handed it to her aunt. No sooner, however, had she done so than the absurdity of the command and compliance became apparent to her, and, with rising wrath, she was about to recall her act, when her eyes met the dark scowl of the old lady, and yielding to the force of habit, she remained quiet.
Now Becky's conduct, harsh as it seemed, was altogether caused by excessive anxiety for her niece's interest; for she was, to the full extent, as honest as she was crabbed. She felt her responsibility as the only surviving adult relative of her brother, and as a sort of natural guardian both of the heiress and her estates, a position which she was by no means desirous of retaining longer than the welfare of Gertrude required it.
Her only hope of relief from her self-imposed duties was in seeing Gertrude married to some "stiddy, sober man;" but on this point she had a morbid anxiety even greater than that which related to the property; for she was in constant trepidation lest the heiress should fall a victim to some needy fortune-hunter, in which class she ranked all suitors who did not follow the plough, and wear homespun. She even went so far as to question more than one presuming beau as to his intentions; and one timid young man who had been a whole month accumulating courage enough to make a first call upon Gertrude, was so frightened by the fierce manner in which Aunt Becky asked him what he wanted, that he only stammered out something about having got into the wrong house, and retreated without ever seeing the object of his hopes.
​Strangely enough too, although Getty knew her aunt's conduct in this instance, and her general asperity toward gentlemen visitors, she did not seem to resent it, or to be rendered at all unhappy by it; nay, she was even suspected of rejoicing at so easy a mode of escaping the persecution of lovers. She was unwilling, however, that the imputation of inhospitality or impoliteness should rest upon her family; and on this point she remonstrated with the duenna.
"Let the molly-yhacks stay at home, then," said Beeky. "What business have they to come here 'sparking?' Let them stay at home, and when we want them we'll send for them."
How and when Harry Vrail's acquaintance with Gertrude began, it would be difficult to say; but for several preceding years his hunting excursions had seemed to extend more often through her father's forests than in any other direction; and the silvery stream which tinkled across the meadows of Mynheer Van Kleeck afforded the finest-flavored trout, in Harry's estimation, of the whole country around. It was natural enough for him, on these expeditions, to stop occasionally and chat with old Baltus on his stoop; and sometimes to leave a tribute of his game with the proprietor of the domain on which it was bagged.
If a string of finer fish than usual rewarded his afternoon's labors the larger half was sure to be left at Baltus's door, despite all resistance; and then the servant was to be instructed in the art of dressing them, and Getty was to be taught the mystery of cooking them, in the way which should best preserve their flavor.
Sometimes, too, the fatigued youth could be induced, at the close of the day, to remain and see if his instructions were properly followed, and at the bountiful board of the Dutchman, his seat chanced ever to be beside that of Getty, who saw that he received of the choicest portions of his own gifts. How she loaded his plate, too, with dainties drawn from dark closets, the key of which was seldom turned, save on such occasions as this! How the thickest cream filled the old-fashioned silver cream-pot to the brim, and was half-emptied over Harry's strawberries, or on Harry's currants, while with her own white hand, she pitched the large wheaten slices, quoit-like, ​around his plate, enjoining upon him in the most approved fashion of Dutch hospitality—to eat!
Nor did Harry always find himself sufficiently refreshed to start for home as soon as the evening meal was finished. From the table to the long covered stoop was a natural and easy transition, for there the air was fresh and cool; and while Baltus planted himself, puffing, in his favorite corner, and his silent vrow sat knitting and musing at his side, and pussy, unreproved, now dandled the good dame's ball of yarn in her paws, and now, tapping it fiercely, pursued it rolling far across the floor; while the swallows darted daringly inside the pillars, and skimming close to the ceiling, flew chirping out at the farthest opening, Harry and Getty chatted and laughed together, talking only on common themes, it is true, yet at times in tones which might have been mistaken, by one who had not caught the words, for tones of love.
And there was a time, when yet Harry's father was alive, and was a man of wealth, that the young man dreamed of love. It was presumptuous, he know, in him, even then, to look up to one so fair and pure as sweet Gertrude seemed to him, and one for whom so many worthier than himself would be certain to aspire. Yet he could not refrain from hoping, though with so faint a heart that he never found courage to declare, or even most remotely to hint at, the love which consumed him. But if, while he was the prospective heir of great wealth, he felt thus unworthy of the object of his admiration, how widely, hopelessly yawned the gulf of separation between them when positive poverty became his lot! With a pang of unspeakable intensity, he dismissed the bright vision which had gilded his heart, and sought no more to recall so painful and illusive a dream.
Yet, strangely enough, while he held himself thus unworthy of Gertrude, and considered that his changed position precluded him from the right to offer her his hand, he saw no such obstacles in the way of his brilliant cousin Tom, now about to enter, with a victor's stride, upon that field which he had so ingloriously relinquished.
A very young lawyer was Tom; decidedly handsome, and possessing a moderate amount of talent, flanked by a most immoderate and inordinate vanity. But in Harry's estimation, his merits were ​so many, and his fortunes so sure, that he might almost be entitled to wed a princess; and although he was incensed, he was not surprised at the very confident tone in which the young disciple of Themis had spoken of winning the beautiful Gertrude, if he chose. Harry thought so himself: he had often thought of it before, and had wondered why his cousin had never seemed to notice this sparkling jewel in his path, any more than if it were but common crystal.
But true love, even when hopeless, instinctively revolts at the idea of seeing the beloved object won by another, however worthy; and Harry, although not without some upbraidings of conscience, had carefully abstained from saying any thing which should set the current of Tom's thoughts in the direction of the great prize he had discovered. Very great, therefore, was his alarm, when his good grand-sire had made his abrupt suggestion, and when Tom so coarsely and ungraciously seemed to approve it. Yet he suppressed his great grief, and replied truthfully to his cousin's inquiry, failing, in his abundant charity, to perceive the utter selfishness which had so entirely overlooked himself, or any predilections which he might entertain.
He even acceded to his friend's request to accompany him on his first visit to Getty; not because any formal introduction was needed, for there had been a slight acquaintance existing between all the parties from childhood, but because Tom thought it would serve to put him at once on a better and more familiar footing with the heiress. And so it did. Getty was delighted to see the cousins, for the lonely child had few visitors, and she appreciated the kindness which remembered her bereavement and her isolation. So very amiable and cheerful did she appear, so naturally graceful and winning, especially when conversing with Harry, with whom she was best acquainted, that Tom was positively delighted with her, and on his return homeward, he announced his fixed determination to offer himself within a week.
"Won't she be astonished?" he said.
"It will be rather abrupt," replied Harry. "She will hardly expect it so soon."
"Very probable; but when a thing is to be done, the sooner it is accomplished the better. Beside, it would be scarcely fair to keep her in suspense."
​"Perhaps you are right."
"I shall not hurry her to fix the day, you know, but I abhor long courtships; and these things can be as well settled in a week as in a year."
"But if———
"No, no; a 'but' and an 'if' are quite too much in one sentence. I tell you I have no fears. She may possibly be engaged to some boor; but even then, Harry, I think it could be managed; don't you?"
"I do not think she is engaged; certainly not to any one unworthy of her."
"Then we are on safe ground," said Tom, with hilarity. "She seems a nice girl, and I have no doubt we shall get on capitally together. She shall soon lead a different sort of life from her present one, cooped up in an old brown farm-house, with a dragon to guard her. Won't she open her eyes when we go to the city, and when she guts into New-York society?"
Harry began to open his eyes a little, a very little, to his cousins character; but the force of education was strong, and he had been taught to believe Tom almost perfect: so his invincible good nature was busy in meliorating the harsh views which he was at first disposed to take of his conduct, and in inventing excuses for him. Beside, he had a strong affection for Tom, which he believed to be fully reciprocated, and he did not doubt that Getty would inspire him with the same fervent love which his own heart had once felt, and even now with difficulty suppressed.
He did not pursue the subject, nor return to it again, excepting when compelled to do so by the other, whose exuberant spirits ran wild in contemplation of the fortunate change which he was about to make in his affairs, and who could not cease to wonder that he had never before discovered such an obvious opportunity for his personal advancement. The more he thought of his project, the more deeply his heart was set upon it, and so bountifully was he supplied with that quality of mind which Harry most lacked, self-esteem, that he had no misgivings as to success.
​"What has come over you, then, Getty, that you have been sing-singing all the time, up stairs and down, for these two days—hey?" said Becky to her niece, on the afternoon of the second day after the visit of the cousins Vrail.
"Oh! nothing, aunty," said Gertrude, hesitating. "I often sing like that; do not I?"
"Not often, I hope. I have counted these stitches three times, and every time your ring-te-iddlety has made me forget how many there are."
The dame's tone was severe; and as Getty spied the old scowl taking shape on her forehead, she retreated to her own room to sing away the remainder of the evening by herself. On the morrow, also, her heart seemed equally light, and snatches of old songs were escaping all day from her lips, making every room and closet vocal with melody, as she flitted through them on various household duties. Now and then a growl responded to some of these chirpings, silencing them for a while only to break forth in some other quarter of the house, more cheerily than ever. As evening drew nigh, her merriment gradually subsided, and she withdrew to her own apartment in a more thoughtful and pensive mood—not long, however, to remain unsought. Her heart beat quickly, when, listening, she heard the voice of a visitor below, and far quicker, when a servant-girl came up and informed her that Mr. Vrail was in the parlor, and wished to see her.
Startled but not surprised, with a fluttering heart and a flushed face, she flew to the glass to add the last touch to the simple adornments of her person, and, although far from being vain, she could not forbear contemplating a moment, with complacency, the sweet picture reflected by the faithful mirror.
She waited a little while for her agitation to subside; for, with that rapid breath and heightened color, and with something very like a tear glistening in her eye, she was unwilling to meet her visitor; but, while she waited, she received another and a more urgent summons.
"You had better come down, Miss Gertrude," said the girl, who seemed to guess that her young mistress was expecting a not ​unwelcome visitor; "you had better come down, for your aunt Becky is getting ready to go in and see the gentleman."
This announcement did not have a tendency to allay Miss Van Kleeck's excitement, but it hastened her movements, and in a few moments she was at the parlor-door, which she entered tremblingly, and not the less beautiful for her fright. Her step had been agile, but she stopped as if spell-bound just within the door-way, seemingly unable to comprehend or reply to the very civil "Good evening" with which she was addressed by Mr. Thomas Vrail.
The changed expression of her countenance, so radiant on entering, so amazed and saddened now, did not fail to attract the notice of that young gentleman, who, sagely attributing it to the awe inspired by his presence, at once condescendingly resolved to reassure the heart of his charmer by his suavity. But, although Getty recovered herself so far as to say "Good evening," and, after another considerable pause, to ask her visitor to sit down, and then to sit down herself on the farthest edge of the chair most remote from her companion, she did not seem easily reässured.
Tom said it was a pleasant evening; and Getty said "Yes," very, very faintly.
Then Tom said it was a beautiful walk from his house to Miss Van Kleeck's, and Getty again answered with a monosyllable, but this time a little more distinctly.
"A very delightful walk," reiterated the suitor, "and one which I hope I shall have the pleasure of taking frequently."
Miss Van Kleeck, thinking it necessary to say something in reply, and, entirely failing to comprehend the drift of the remark, "hoped so, too."
Tom now felt himself to be getting along fast, nay, with very railroad speed; so he ventured to draw his seat a little nearer to Getty, to her manifest trepidation, for her eyes turned quickly toward the door, and she seemed to be contemplating flight.
But it was one of Tom's maxims to strike while the iron is hot, and if he had been so well convinced of having made a favorable impression on the evening of his first visit, he felt doubly sure now, after the new encouragement he had received.
​"I may be a little hasty, Miss Van Klecek," he said, again slightly lessening his distance from her, "but I have had the presumption to imagine that I—that you—that I———"
"Please not to come any nearer," said Getty, hastily, as her suitor's chair exhibited still further signs of locomotion.
"Ah! certainly not, if you wish it," replied the lover very blandly; "I mean, not at present; but allow me to hope that the time will come, when you—when I—that is to say, when both of us———"
Tom stopped, for Gertrude had risen, and had taken a step toward the door, with much appearance of agitation.
"I fear you do not understand me," he said hastily.
"I fear I do," she replied quickly and sensibly, "although it is rather your manner than your words which express your meaning."
"Stay, then, and be assured that I am quite in earnest."
"I do not question your sincerity, Mr. Vrail———
"That I have come here to offer you this hand," he continued, extending certainly a very clean one, which bore evident marks of recent scrubbing for its present service, but which the heiress exhibited no haste to accept.
She had attained sufficient proximity to the door to feel certain that her retreat could not be cut off, and her self-possession having in some degree returned, she listened respectfully, and replied politely, although with a tone of sadness.
"I will spare you any further avowal of your feelings, Mr. Vrail," she began.
"Do not think of such a thing, dear Gertrude," he replied, still unawakened from his hallucination, "I am proud to make profession of my love for you."
"Will you listen to me a moment before I go?"
"An hour! a week! nay, for ever!"
"I shall not detain you a minute."
"I assure you I am in no hurry!"
"I am. You are laboring under a mistake. We are nearly strangers to each other, and you have scarcely the right to address me in the way you have done; but if it were otherwise I have only ​to answer by declining your offer," she said, glancing at the hand and arm which had remained projecting like a pump-handle all this while, with the evident expectation on the part of Thomas, whose whole attitude was quite theatrical, that it was speedily to be seized and clung to.
He now began to look astonished and alarmed, but he immediately rallied.
"Oh! I see how it is!" he said; "I have been rather abrupt, I dare say; but we will become better acquainted. I will call often to see you, and then—why, Miss Van Kleeck—do n't go!"
Getty had now become angry. She left the room and her astonished lover, but paused a moment outside the door, and said, with a very pretty flush on her cheek, and a very bright sparkling in her eye:
"Call as often as you choose, Mr. Vrail, but I shall never see you. You do not seem to understand the plainest words, but I assure you we shall never be better acquainted with each other than we are now. Good evening."
So saying, Getty almost ran out of the outer room, shutting the door after her with a haste which gave it quite the character of a slam, and hurried up to her own apartment.
Tom's panoply of conceit, which was almost invulnerable, and had withstood so much, only now gave way.
"I really believe she means to refuse me," he said, soliloquising. "It is certainly very ridiculous; but perhaps she may come back. I will wait a little."
He did wait some minutes, listening earnestly, and was at length gratified by the sound of approaching steps, which he advanced to meet with great alacrity; but what was his consternation on encountering at the door the wrinkled and vinegary countenance of Dame Becky, whose huge spectacles, as she stood confronting him a moment in silence, glowered upon him like the eyes of the great horned owl.
The lover retreated a step before this apparition.
"Do you want Getty?" she said, at length, in a voice amazingly shrill and sharp.
"I—yes, I should be happy to see her a few minutes if—if you please."
​"But do you want her? Do you want to marry her?" she asked, in still more of a scolding tone.
"Oh!—ah!—yes, madam," said Tom, attempting to win the old woman by a fine speech; "I am exceedingly proud to call myself an admirer of your beautiful niece; and I have indulged the hope that we might find our tastes congenial to each other, and our hearts sympathetic. May I count, dear madam, on your influence with Miss Gertrude?"
"No, you can 't; and more than that, you can 't have her. So, no more of that. You are the third this week!"
"Good gracious! the third what, ma'am?"
"No matter what; you can 't have her. You understand, do n't you?"
"Y—yes," said Tom, "I suppose I do."
"Very well, then—no offense meant," said Aunt Becky, now trying to modify what might seem harsh in her language, by a touch of politeness, but who still spoke in the same high key. "Wo n't you sit down?"
"No, I thank you," muttered Tom, now decidedly crest-fallen; "I rather think it is time for me to go."
"Good night, then," said Becky, following him to the door, as closely as if he had been a burglar. "Take care of the dog!"
"The deuce!" said Tom to himself, clutching his cane as he walked off the stoop. "Is there a dog to be escaped too? I should n't wonder if they should set him on me!" and he quickened his step down the lane that led to the highway, and was soon out of sight of the old farm-house, without even turning to take a last look at the solitary light which gleamed like a beacon from Getty's room. Alas! alas! no beacon of hope for him!