Was It Right to Forgive? by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (free novel 24 .txt) 📖

fish had once been caught. I saw an orchard, where there had once been an oyster-bed. I saw a fair province, covered with a web of silvery waters."

"And yet they say that Dutchmen are prosaic and phlegmatic! Holland is in itself a poem!"

"Yes," said Adriana, "for some poet must have seen beneath the salt waves the land flowing with milk and bristling with barley."

"And then," added Miss Alida, all aglow with enthusiasm--"and then came the heroes! and they dived into the turbid waters and brought the vision to the light of day."

"Very good!" said the Professor; "but what I like about the Hollanders is their religion. Holland was nothing till all of a sudden the Gospel made it sublime. The Hollanders knew the worth of their souls. In their politics, they thought of eternity--a thing statesmen do not usually take into account; and seeking first the kingdom of heaven, they struck such bold strokes for freedom as would make common heroes falter."

"Yes," answered Miss Alida, "the Dutch are a religious people, but they have always hated religious rituals. You could not get Antony and Adriana Van Hoosen, after all their American generations, to take an interest in church millinery and such trivialities."

"Race! race! my dear madam. The Dutch do not comprehend the truths hidden in symbols--that is all."

"But why," asked Antony, "should we have symbols when we may have realities?"

"Why? why? Always why! I think I will write a grand treatise on the Martyrs and Heroes of Holland."

"Better, then, begin at once. Miss Witsus contemplates just such a book. She tells me that she is certain she can write it."

"Let her cherish the simple faith to the latest day of her life. Do not encourage her in any audacious attempts to reduce it to practice. She will only lose a pleasant illusion. For my part, I spoke presumptuously, and I most humbly repent it."

"Let us change the subject. How do you feel about the elections, Professor?" asked Antony.

"I take them as I take the weather, or any other matter beyond my control."

"The principles of Democracy----"

"Oh, sir!" interrupted the Professor, "the principles are all right; the trouble is in reducing them to practice, for Democracy degrades statesmen into politicians."

"The trouble is," said Miss Alida, laughing, "we want more Dutchmen in office. They have some fixed ideas about religion and politics, and they stick to them like grim death."

"Dutch again!"

"Yes, sir. And I may tell you that I am thinking of founding a Woman's Holland Society. Have you any idea of the wealth and intelligence united in the Men's Holland Society of New York City? Do you know how they honor their noble fatherland? They eat, and drink, and make merry; or they interest themselves in preserving a few old relics. But if the Dutch women form a Holland Society, the Dutch men may prepare to give, and to do, or else to take a lower place. The Dutch Women's Holland Society will found schools and orphanages, and look after the sick and the stranger within our gates. They will encourage Dutch talent and Dutch cleanliness; and stand up for the plain, primitive religion."

"My dear madam! Has the millennium indeed arrived?"

"There is something in the idea, however, Professor?"

"Yes; but we must leave it for future discussion. I have a dear friend waiting for me in your outer vestibule."

"A dear friend of yours! And waiting for you in the outer vestibule! Why did you not bring him in? You must have known that he would be welcome."

"My friend is my dog Sultan; a noble mastiff, a thorough gentleman, a Republican and Protectionist of the proper sort. He allows no strange dogs to prowl about the place, and grub up his buried bones. Cats, in his eyes, are unfit to cumber the earth. Cows and other dogs he does not permit even to look over the fence. A dog of worth; and when I come again, I will introduce him to you; but for the present--adieu!"

They sat still a little to praise the Professor, and then the ladies prepared for their afternoon shopping. They were full of anticipation, and Adriana was radiant with those pleasant hopes that only stir the heart of youth. Among the silks and laces, the gowns and cloaks and trimmings, they had some happy calculations; and when they left Arnold & Constable's, it was already dusk and cold. They passed out of the store quickly, Yanna looking straight before her, and having her muff raised slightly towards her face. So neither of them saw the young man who bent eagerly forward from a passing hansom, and looked at them with amazement, and yet with an intense interest.

It was Harry Filmer on his way home; and if the driver had not known his home, he would certainly have passed it, so astonished was he at what he had seen, and so lost in speculation as to how such a thing could be.

"Whom do you think I met driving with Madame Zabriski this evening as I came home?" he said to his mother and Rose, as soon as an opportunity offered.

"Madame Zabriski's friends are called legion," answered Mrs. Filmer; "but I am sure we know no one who is on driving terms with the proud old woman."

"Nevertheless, it was a great friend of yours, Rose--in fact, it was Yanna Van Hoosen."

Mrs. Filmer turned round and looked at her son with scornful incredulity. "The thing is absurd!" she said. "You have been mistaken. Miss Van Hoosen has quite a common face."

"It was Yanna," persisted Harry, sulkily. "I should think I know Yanna when I see her. I have good reason to do so. Her face was clear as light against the winter gloom. I can tell you, it gave me a shock."

"In the Zabriski carriage? I cannot understand it. Was Madame Zabriski with her?"

"I have never seen Madame Zabriski except at the opera. Women look different in their carriage wraps."

"I am almost certain that I heard, or I read, that she had gone with a party to Florida. You are sure it was Miss Van Hoosen?"

"Positive."

"Then," said Rose, "I think Yanna is acting very strangely. Why has she not written to me? I sent her a long letter last week, and she has not answered it. However, I shall probably see her brother this evening, and he will tell me whatever there is to tell."

Thus it happened that Antony received a smiling invitation that night into the Filmers' opera box; and that he was translated into the seventh circle of delight by Rose's amiability and preference. To other visitors she was delightfully cordial, but she kept Antony at her side, and treated him with a familiar confidence she gave to no one else. Even Mrs. Filmer was more polite. She had noticed between Antony and her daughter a very intimate and apparently interesting conversation, and she perceived that Rose was much impressed by its tenor; and that she treated her lover with an unusual consideration. It was therefore likely that something strange had occurred; and she wisely accommodated herself to the mood it had induced.

But there was no conversation on the subject until they were at home. Then Mrs. Filmer, in her dressing-gown and slippers, went to Rose's room to receive her confidence. The girl was sitting half-undressed before the fire, with a soft, happy expression on her face. She sighed and smiled when her mother entered, and then began to uncoil her hair, and to spread it loose over the back of the chair on which she sat.

"It is too long, Rose," said Mrs. Filmer, passing the shining locks through her fingers. "You ought to have it cut a little."

"So many things ought to be done that are neglected. You came to hear about Yanna, eh, mamma?"

"What did Mr. Van Hoosen say?"

"Yanna and he are both staying with their cousin, Miss Alida Van Hoosen--you know papa sold her some land in Woodsome last summer. Miss Van Hoosen has rented the Zabriski house, with all its belongings, servants, carriages, opera box, etc."

"Now I begin to understand. This Miss Van Hoosen and Madame Zabriski have been friends since their school days. They are together every winter; and every one thinks it necessary to speak of their 'lovely friendship,' and so on. And so she is a relative of the girl you know? Why did you not tell me this before?"

"They are only cousins--distant cousins--and Yanna never said much about her. We often passed her house when we were driving; and if we saw her at the window, or in the garden, we bowed to her. She appeared to be a very good-tempered old lady, and she must be so, for she has invited Yanna and her brother to stay with her until Easter."

"Well! Wonders never cease! It may, however, be a good thing for you, Rose. This lady must know many of the Zabriski set; and she will doubtless give some entertainments to her cousins. And somehow you are not popular with our own acquaintances, so that it would be a little triumph for you to step up from among them. I should go and see your friend in the morning."

"I intend to do so. I promised her brother I would be there early. He said he was sure that Yanna had written to me."

Then she rose, laid down the hairpins she had been idly fingering, and going to a closet, took out of it a bottle and a small wine glass. Mrs. Filmer instantly arrested her hand. "What are you doing, Rose?" she asked, angrily. "You took enough wine before coming upstairs. Do you know that Harry said to me yesterday, 'Rose takes too much wine for a young girl; she will spoil her complexion.'"

"Tell Harry to mind his own complexion. I really have a pain--an indigestion, mamma. I always suffer from it when I eat a lobster salad, and I foolishly ate one to-night. I am only going to take a teaspoonful as medicine."

"Why, Rose! My God! Rose, it is brandy! Give the bottle to me at once! What do you mean? Are you mad?"

"Not at all. I am only tired to death, and not well."

Mrs. Filmer had the bottle in her hand, and she sat down with it, and began to cry hysterically. The fear, the doubt, that had been for some time couchant, hushed, hidden, had suddenly sprung like a wild beast at her heart. She felt as if she must choke, but in the midst of her anguish, she clung to the bottle with the desperation of a mother who holds back death from her child.

For some minutes Rose stood watching her, not affected by the grief she witnessed; only conscious of an indifference she could not master, and whose foundation was anger and annoyance. But when her mother had sobbed her passion of grief away, and lay white, still and exhausted in her chair, Rose went to her side, and kissed the tears off her cheeks, and said with an accent of deep injury:

"Mamma, dear mamma! You are making your head ache for nothing at all. Every one of the girls I know take a teaspoonful of brandy now and then, when they are tired and sick. Harry does the same thing very often. Why should he blame me? And then for you to act as if I had committed some dreadful crime! It is too