The Further Adventures of O'Neill in Holland

It was most painful; for my landlady’s impending hysterics were making the lad worse every moment.

A QUIET SLEEP

“Is poesje ook weggeloopen?” he said presently. A happy thought struck Kathleen. She stole downstairs, and presently returned with the ‘chat’, which was purring vigorously and giving ‘kopjes’.

As she placed the soft furry creature in Jan’s hands, he stopped moaning and stroked it joyfully. “Dag, Kitty!” he said with delight. “Ben je terug?”

Apparently he thought it was I who had restored the wanderer, for he explained: “Geen praatje, mijnheer: Zat is mine naiz litle chat.”

Then, exhausted and satisfied, he dropped into a sound sleep.

CHAPTER XI

GOSSIP AND DIPLOMACY

The strain was over; and the little lad slumbered peacefully, – until dawn, as it proved. We got the mother gradually quieted, and at last induced to go off to bed, leaving Kathleen in charge for the night. About half-past-one, Terence and I, growing hungry, extemporised a sort of pic-nic in the kitchen; but Kathleen wouldn’t touch anything we brought her.

It was then I began to notice how grave she was, and silent.

But I must say, nobody could be more devoted than she was to the youthful invalid.

He awoke rather early after his timely sleep, but much calmer. And – a good sign – he had a healthy ‘trek’, which we were gratified to see in operation upon ‘beschuit’ and ‘melk’, before his mother arrived to resume the reins of authority.

THE DISCOURAGED SUITOR

As we escorted Kathleen to her hotel in the cool of the morning, we found her singularly irresponsive, not to say depressed; and I somehow got wind of the fact that van Leeuwen, who had motored up to the Hague, on hearing of her father’s accident, had been prowling about the Vieux Doelen ever since. He had visited Dr. MacNamara almost every day; but Kathleen had kept studiously aloof.

“I know he likes father,” she said, “and I’m glad he came so often to see him. Not very interesting, otherwise! In any case he has suddenly vanished into space!”

The evening before, when she was on her way to my landlady’s to watch by the sick boy, van Leeuwen had met her right in front of the Mauritshuis. But she had treated him with such stately indifference, and greeted his remarks with such frigid courtesy, that the good-natured fellow was really hurt. He had in fact returned the same evening to Arnhem.

Kathleen said she was very glad, except for her father’s sake. But she didn’t give one the impression of being enthusiastic about it, and I drew my own conclusions.

WILL KATHLEEN STUDY DUTCH?

On reaching the Doelen, we found a hasty scrawl from the very man we had been talking of – van Leeuwen – inviting Terence and myself to a cycling tour in his neighbourhood.

“Well, then, I’ll go next Friday,” Terence broke out; “at least, if you’re ready then, Jack. We’ll have a grand time. Dad is all right now; and that funny little kid is on the mend. So we can go with a clear conscience. Say, yes.”

“Ah, that’s like you boys”, said Kathleen banteringly, but without the ghost of a smile, “to go cycling about, enjoying yourselves, no matter what happens to others! I’m still anxious about that child. And I do wish I understood him better when he talks.”

“As for that”, I interrupted, “I’ll give you the key to it, in an instant. Jan’s reminiscences are all about my Dutch. Well, I’ll lend you my diary, and the most entertaining Grammar in Holland. Besides, I’ve written a monograph on obvious blunders, English into Dutch. Read these, now, when you’re tending this convalescent boy-hero of yours. He’ll understand them, I’ll be bound; and it’ll shake him up, and do you a world of good yourself.”

AN INTERESTING COACH

“What a silly cousin, to be sure!” she replied. “You forget, sir, I need some one to explain all your double-Dutch. Get me a ‘coach’ now, a competent one, who knows everything, and I’ll give your booklet a trial.”

“Done!” I said, as we parted.

And I held her to it. My diary kept her amused for a couple of days, as she watched in the sick-room. It roused her out of her depression, and she got into the way of reading things to Jan as he recovered.

She couldn’t remain quite smileless; but grew interested enough in Dutch to demand my monograph and – above all – the Grammar!

“You shall have them both,” I assured her, – “the booklet on the spot; and the Grammar, when I get as far as Arnhem and don’t need to use it for a while.”

“Couldn’t I have it sooner? I’m dying with curiosity to see that awful book. Or, when you are there, and any of your friends are coming to the Hague, just send it with them.”

“Yes. There’s a ‘coach’ coming up in a day or two. I’ll send it along.”

THE DIPLOMATIC EPISTLE

I fancied her eyes gave a bit of a flicker. But she was meek and friendly: so I knew it was all right. She hadn’t asked what kind of coach. But she’s intelligent.

That very instant I went home and wrote van Leeuwen that we – Terence and I – were starting next day, by train, for Arnhem, whence we should have a run through Gelderland.

There was no note-paper in the house, but I couldn’t wait. So I a penned what I had to say on a series of visiting cards, – numbering them: 1, 2, 3 up to 10, and enclosing them in a portly yellow envelope. It was the only thing I had. I was pleased to notice its impressive aspect, as that would prevent its getting lost readily.

For I attached much importance to that communication.

In it I prepared van Leeuwen’s mind, indirectly and circuitously, for apprehending the idea that Miss MacNamara was now deeply interested in Dutch; and was studying it to help her in nursing that sick boy. Also that, as she had grown much too sombre of late with the responsibilities she had assumed, we were trying to brighten her up. When the lad was quite well, we should all do the Friesland meres, before we returned to Kilkenny. But not for a while yet.

THE BRINK OF A ROMANCE

And so on. I hinted as distantly as I could, that he had motored back to Arnhem a trifle too soon. We were all sorry he had left so suddenly. Even yet, if he would leave his camera at home – the one with the loud click – and if he wouldn’t be too exclusively immersed in Celtic manuscripts, and avoided arguing about the Suffragettes, when he did meet with the MacNamara family, there was no reason to suppose that his offences were beyond pardon. All this in shadowy outline – for fear he would motor up like a Fury, and either break his neck on the way, or spoil everything by premature action.

I made the haze quite thick, here and there, on the visiting cards – their form lent itself to obscurity – and I told him I should see him without fail within twenty-four hours.

“I might have to ask a favour at his hands about a grammar.

Terence was well: the Doctor was well, went to Leyden daily to the Library. We expected to reach Velperweg toward midday. Don’t be out.”

I posted the yellow missive with my own hands, and reckoned out by the ‘bus-lichting’ plate, that it would be collected that night.

WELL EARNED REPOSE

“Tour or no tour, to-morrow,” I said to myself, heaving a sigh of relief, after my race to the pillar-box; “We’re on the brink of a romance, if the protagonists only knew it. A little bad Dutch now seems all that is required. And we can rely on Boyton.”

Queer, when you think of it, that you sometimes hold people’s destinies in the hollow of your hand!

However, I didn’t philosophise much, but got to sleep as soon as ever I could, – content as from a good day’s work.

CHAPTER XII

A STUDY IN CHARACTER

Next morning we were up at dawn to be in time for the first express. We cycled to the station; but a row of market-boats, that had reached the one and only canal-bridge on our route, kept us waiting till they filed past; and we missed our train.

“Choost kon!” exclaimed a porter cheerfully, as he took our cycles. “Day-train choost away – von – two – meenit – ako!”

“Never mind”, I rejoined. “There are plenty of day-trains left. It’s early yet.”

As he looked doubtful, I added in the vernacular: “Wij zijn in goeje tijd voor den bommel; nie-waar? Zes vier en veertig.”

“Net, mijnheer”, he replied, grinning appreciation of my Dutch, as he led the way to the loket.

AN UNWELCOME INTERRUPTION

There were no difficulties there. You merely had to say. “Twee enkele reis, Arnhem. Tweede klasse. Gewone biljetten,” and there you were. And these ‘gewone biljetten’ made the forwarding of the cycles simplicity itself.

Duly provided with the forthcoming fiets-papiertjes we ensconced ourselves in a non-smoker, and – to while away the time – rehearsed our Traveller’s Dialogue. That is the system I had made out long since, but now partly forgotten. Terence had benefited by my tuition, and could now keep the ball rolling, with more or less relevant remarks, whilst I enumerated the parts of a train, and talked about tickets and towns.

So smoothly did our conversation run that we were tempted to repeat it with variations; and we were just in the middle of as fine an elocutionary practice as ever you heard, when there was a scramble on the platform; and in there bounded into our compartment – just as the train began to move off – three tourists, hot and breathless!

THE LINGUIST AND THE SATELLITE

They were Englishmen, – London shopkeepers in a small way, I guessed, from their talk. Two of them, father and son, seemed a bit hectoring and dictatorial; the third was an admiring satellite. For very shame’s sake Terence and I didn’t like to drop our Dialogue as if we were culprits; so we lowered our voices, and went through it to the bitter end.

Our new companions listened for a moment, and the truculent father said, “Neouw, there y’are, Tom! wot’s hall that tork abeout? You kneouw the lingo.”

Master Tom – he was about nineteen – posed, apparently, as a linguist. He knew the language all right, he said. “It was kind of debased German. He had picked it up from a boy at school. It was the sime to ’im as Hinglish.”

“Wottaw thiy siyin, Tom?” said the father.

“Oh,” muttered Tom, “abeout the kaind ’v dai it is, an’, hall thet rot. But no use listenin’ to them. They tork such a bad patois, an’ hungrimmentikil.”

The satellite looked impressed. “D’ye tork ’t ’s wull ’s French an’ Juh’man?” he asked.

“Hall the sime to me”, said Tom. “The sime ’z Hinglish.”

The satellite’s awe deepened. Presently, however, he spied the cattle in the fields as we sped along. He pointed them out to Tom. “Fine ceouws, miy wu’d!”

THE BACKSLIDER

“Humph! better in Bu’kshire!” replied the linguist.

In a minute or two he broke out again: “Lot ’v ceouws in a field here, Tom!”

“Faugh!” said Tom; “faw mo’ ’n Essex!”

But the man of humility had an eye for landscape, and couldn’t be repressed.

“Ho, crikkie”, he exclaimed, “look at that meadow an’ canal. Ain’t it stunnin’?”

But the father came to his son’s rescue in defence of Old England. “Yeou jist go deouwn Nawf’k wiy! Faw better th’n this wretched ’ole!”

The satellite evidently felt reproved for his lack of patriotism, for he subsided immediately. But he couldn’t help himself. You might see by the way he looked out of the window that he was in ecstasies over the glowing panorama before him, in spite of Norfolk and Essex and the contempt of his fellow-travellers.

Meantime Terence, fuming and in disgust, had buried himself in the columns of Tit-Bits. The truculent one recognised the familiar weekly, and drawing his son’s attention to both reader and paper he announced quite audibly; “’E can read Hinglish. ’E looks hintelligent.”

DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?

Advancing half way across the carriage, he cleared his throat, and addressed Terence at the top of his voice.

“Do you – a hem! – a hem! – do you —speak Hinglish?”

One could have heard the last two words in the next compartment.

Terence looked up; and I saw by the twinkle in his eye what he was going to do.

“Hein?” he interrogated with a nasal whoop like a subdued trumpet. He had learnt this at school from his French teacher and was a profiscient at rendering it accurately. It gave an unconventional flavour to his manner – which was just what he wished.

“Hein?” he trumpeted again, with an air of amiable curiosity.

“I hawskt – do you – hem! —speak—Hinglish?”

“Ze Engels Langwitch? Yes: I shpeak him – von leetle bit. You alzóo?”

“Hi ’m ’n Englishman,” said the truculent one proudly, a trifle taken aback.

HE MEANS THE EAST END

“Zoo?” replied Terence. “Ach zoo. Ja. Jawohl. Zoo gaat ’t. Beauti-ful – lang-witch! Beauti – ful!” he enunciated with painful distinctness and many twitches of his face.

All this fell in with the tourists’ preconceived ideas of foreign utterance. They exchanged glances.

“You kin mike yors’ff hunderstood, hall raight,” interposed the linguist. “Were you ever in London.”

“Oh, yes,” answered my cousin slowly, counting off upon his fingers. “Alzoo – von – two – tree – time – Mooch peoples – in Londe.”

“Did you like London?” queried Truculence Senior.

“Londe? – No! No – boddy like Londe. – Fery ugly! Mooch smoke – alzoo fogk. – Men see nozzing. Mooch poor peoples – No boots.”

“Not like London!! Why London’s the gritest city in the wu’ld.”

“I pity me mooch – for London peoples.”

“Let’m aleoun, gov’ner,” said the linguist, furious. “It’s the Heast End ’e’s got in ’is ’ed.”

“But the Heouses ’v Pawl’mint – and the Tride?” reasoned the father, reluctant to abandon the controversy.

“Houses Parliament? – nozzing!” said Terence recklessly. “Trade? – alzoo nozzing! American man hef all ze trade. Fery clever. Alzoo German man. Fery clever.”

WAKE UP, JOHN BULL

That was a clincher. Terence had amply avenged their contempt of the scenery they were passing through.

“Let the bloomin’ ass aleoun”, cried Truculence junior. “’E deoun’t kneouw wot ’e’s torkin’ abeout.”

But the shot had gone home. The papers had been full of “Wake up, John Bull!” of late, and he felt uncomfortable. Yet though we relapsed into silence, it wasn’t for long. For soon the senior member of the trio got very exasperated with a local railway-guide that he had been consulting. “Bit of a muddle that!” he cried contemptuously, flinging the booklet on the seat. “Cawn’t mike ’ed or tile of it!”

He turned to my cousin: “Can you tell me ’ow far it is to Gooday – or Goodee?”

Terence replied briskly in appalling English: “Goodee – I know-not. Zat iss nozzing. Good-day, zat is Goejen-dag!”

“Look ’ere,” said the tourist; “’Ere you aw!” pointing to the name of the place on his Cook’s ticket.

GOUDA HISTORICAL

“Oh,” said Terence, getting so foreign as to be scarcely intelligible. “Zat-iss – Gouda. Beaut-ti-ful city!” And he rolled his eyes in apparent awe at the magnificence of that unpretentious market-town. “Ex-qui-seet!”

“Ow far is it?” queried his interlocutor. “Ow long, in the trine – to Gouda?”

“Alzoo,” returned my cousin, purposely misunderstanding him. “Yes; ferry long. Long times. Ferry old ceety. Much years. Tree – four – century! Historique!”

“Yes, yes,” said the impatient traveller. “But – wen – d’we – arrive? get there – you kneouw – ?”

“You vil arrivé,” pronounced Terence in the same baby-English, “haff – of – ze – klok.”

“Hawf ’n eour; that wot ’e’s drivin’ et,” grumbled the Linguist.

They kept on asking questions and criticising us to our faces, when they talked together. Our dress, our appearance, our complexions were all adjudged to be woefully foreign; and they got so patronising that I had to put in an odd word, in real English, to Terence, now and again, just to prevent them going too far. Imperceptibly conversation became general; and as I forced Terence out of his assumed ignorance of English, the surprise of the tourists deepened into dismay, for they noticed we were talking more and more quickly, and idiomatically as well.

FOREIGNERS DON’T GET THE HANG OF IT

“Hi siy!” whispered the satellite, “they’re learnin’ Hinglish from hus! I’m blest hif thiy weount soon be nearly ’s good ’s we are!”

“Never you fear,” said young Conceit. “Furriners never git the ’ang of it.”

“Never,” corroborated Truculence.

But the open criticising of our appearance was at an end.

Our companions looked anything but conciliatory when a crowd of rustics poured into the carriage at one of the stations. It was some sort of market at Gouda; and the bommel was crammed now. Finally the guard scurried along, and half hoisted, half pushed a peasant woman with her three children into the compartment.

It was odd to see Truculence rise and help the little ones in; and odder still to see the children smile up into that formidable face, when they took their seats.

A CONFIDENT YOUNGSTER

I noticed the twinkle in his eye, however, as he watched the bairnies trying to scramble to the window. He was evidently much interested in a bright little boy of seven with dreamy eyes, who was bent on amusing himself; and I could see that he wanted badly to shake hands with him and his tot of a sister, and ask them their names. He evidently regretted his inability to speak Dutch; but he made up for his silence by reaching the boy the window-strap, with a nod of comradeship. The little fellow took it eagerly and, after playing with it a moment or two, slid off his seat and actually climbed up beside Truculence (the scorner of everything non-British) and pushing Truculence to one side, looked out of Truculence’s window.

So surprisingly passive was my severe compatriot at all this that I hazarded a guess, and said: “You have a boy of five at home?”

He stopped short clearing the pane for his tiny companion, and sat stock-still. It might have been a statue that was beside me so little did he move. Not a sound in answer to my question!

Quickly I glanced at him.

Oh, I could have bitten off my tongue when I saw that man’s face! It was drawn and white, and not at all like the scornful censor’s of a few minutes before.

AN ENGLISH UNCLE FOR CLAAS

He continued staring out of the window a moment; then he turned and said quietly: “I ’ad – a little fair haired fellow – a year ago… ’E was six… An’ the born image of thet kiddie there.”

Here he stroked the kiddie’s head, which was now glued to the glass in an eager endeavour to see a passing train.

“’E used to be that fond of machinery, too,” he continued, opening a city bag and bringing out a diminutive flying-machine, a “twee-dekker” that he had evidently bought in the Hague. “I got it, ’cos it minded me of the things my boy used to pliy with. But I’ve nobody to give it to.

May I as well give it to this kid. Tell ’is mother ’e’s to keep it. Tell ’er that I’m ’s hold uncle from Hingland.”

I did my best. Claas grasped the situation at once, as far as the twee-dekker was concerned. The mother was slower. Consternation and politeness took away her speech for an instant, but she soon recovered and put Claas through his drill.

“Oh mijnheer, hij is zoo bij de hand!”

DRAM-DRINKING AT EIGHT?

Then she overwhelmed us all with family reminiscences, which none of us understood a word of, but which could not be stopped. It was a relief to get to Gouda; and the tension of our feelings was pleasantly relaxed by observing the profound disgust that mantled the Londoner’s brow, when after helping the children on to the platform, he was accosted by a vendor of local dainties, who loudly insisted on selling Goudsche Sprits to the company. “’Ere’s a Johnny wants the kiddies an’all of us to liquor up – on neat spirits – before hight o’clock in the mo’nin’! Shime, I call it.”

WUIF ES, OOM!

Claas had to say ’Good-bye’ to his new uncle, and we watched proceedings from our window. The Linguist ignored the adieu completely; but the Satellite manfully backed up the father, and shook hands all round. A knot of porters gathered to seize the luggage of the big Englishman, who stood, masterful and bored, in the midst of the hubbub. His jaw and chin were those of Rhadamanthus; but his eyes were soft as they rested on the boyish figure descending the stairs with his baby-sister. Claas was waving a small hand to his new uncle who had given him the Twee-dekker; but his new uncle was not waving anything to him. So Claas stopped short, and cried at the top of his voice: “Wuif es oom! wui – uif es, nouw! Je moet wuife!”

“Wot’s ’e up to, the young rescal?” he asked me.

“I believe he wants you to make a sign of goodbye. It’s always done here,” I replied.

Well, he produced, from some place or other, a brilliant jubilee handkerchief – he was a dressy man and had plenty of coloured things – and shook it with both hands to his tiny friend. And the last I saw of him, as the train steamed on towards Utrecht, was, his waving of this silk banner to the little boy on the steps; the stern lips were relaxed into a smile; the defiant face was quite wistful as he repeated: “The young rescal!”

Here the Goudsche sprits seller, in his tour up and down the platform, approached the burly Londoner again, and seeing him now in an unexpectedly melting mood, at once proffered his delicacies with noisy persistence.

“Goudsche sprits! Goudsche sprits! Sir,” he bawled in the Englishman’s face, holding out a packet.

HIS BARK IS WORSE THAN HIS BITE

Truculence was quite glad of the interruption. He blew his nose violently on his marvellous handkerchief, and turned upon the local merchant with a glare of indignation.

“Get along! How dare you? D’ye take me for a drunkard?”

“Formidable customer that!” whispered Terence at my elbow. “Still I think his bark is worse than his bite.”

“Not a doubt of it,” I replied. “And there are more of his kind.”

CHAPTER XIII

BELET!

We got on famously at Utrecht and at the Arnhem station. In less time than it takes to tell it we were mounted on our cycles with our bags in front of us, and ready for the road.

“This is fine!” exclaimed Terence. And indeed it was. Charmed by the ease with which we had got along so safely, I felt a trifle elated over our linguistic victories, and had already begun to dream of fresh fields to conquer, when we drew near van Leeuwen’s villa on the Velperweg – a lovely spot.

We dismounted to make sure we were right, and then walked briskly up the avenue.

The door was opened by a timid-looking servant, who said: “Er is belet.”

WELKE MIJNHEER?

It was the first time I had met the expression; yet it sounded oddly familiar. Ah, of course. For the last ten days I had been studying biljetten out of the railway-guide. There was apparently a slight provincialism in her way of the rendering the liquid in the middle of the word, but this didn’t matter. There was a ticket, then. Puzzling, very.

“Ja?” I said tentatively.

“Er is belet,” she repeated. The intonation was decisive; but as her manner was expectant, I took it for a question, had we tickets? Queer, certainly. Yes; I assured her we had, – “gewone biljetten, retour, – geldig voor éen dag.”

She shifted her ground and said, “Mijnheer heeft belet.”

Now you know how hard it is to be sure what person servants are talking about when they say Mijnheer. Did she mean me or her master? “Welke Mijnheer?” I asked. “Ben ik mijnheer, of is Mijnheer mijnheer?”

Raising her voice she announced deliberately, but with increasing irritation: “Mijnheer van Leeuwen – heeft – belet.”

“Aha”, I whispered to Terence, “It’s my big letter she’s talking about. Well, I’m glad it came in time”.

AN AANSLAGBILJET

“Uitstekend!” I hastened to say. “Dat biljet is van mij. Dus mijnheer verwacht mij, niet waar?”

She nervously closed the door a bit. “Ik heb al gezaid – vanmorgen heeft mijnheer expres belet gegeven.”

“Mag ik het hebben, dan”, I enquired politely; “Mijn brief – dat geschreven biljet?”

“Hé?” she said, visibly relieved, opening the door widely as she spoke. “Neem mij niet kwalijk, Mijnheer. Ik wist niet dat u van de belasting was. Komt u om het beschrijvingsbiljet?”

She retreated a step, timidly, into the hall, and glanced at an elderly butler, who in silence had been standing at a discreet distance listening to our colloquy. The butler moved forward, and in an apologetic tone murmured, “Mijnheer, het beschrijvingsbiljet is nog niet klaar. Of komt u met een aanslagbiljet?”