[Illustration: “THEY RESTED ON THE BENCHES, AND MADE LITTLE CONFIDENCES,
AND WERE VERY HAPPY.”]
The Belle of
Bowling Green
By AMELIA E. BARR
Author of “The Bow of Orange Ribbon;” “The
Maid of Maiden Lane,” Etc.
[Illustration: colophon]
With Illustrations
By WALTER H. EVERETT
A. L. BURT COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
Copyright, 1904,
BY
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
_Published, October_
PRINTED IN NEW YORK, U. S. A.
_To My Friend_
WARREN SNYDER
_A Bookman and a Lover of Books_
_This Novel is Dedicated_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I MONDAY’S DAUGHTERS 3
II THE SPRING OF LIFE 30
III A SWEETNESS MORE DESIRED THAN SPRING 61
IV INTRODUCES MR. ST. ANGE 81
V A CHAIN OF CAUSES 115
VI THE MIRACLE OF LOVE 149
VII THE INCIDENT OF MARRIAGE 194
VIII THE ROSE OF RENUNCIATION 226
IX THE REPROOF OF THE SWORD 252
X THE STAR OF PEACE 296
XI AFTERWARD 321
_Prologue_
O shades of respectable Vans!
O Livingstons, Kennedys, Jays!
Lend me your names to conjure with,
And bring back the fine old days--
When the trade and wealth of the city
Lay snugly the rivers between,
And the homes of its merchant princes,
Were built round the Bowling Green.
Here’s to the homes that are past!
Here’s to the men that have been!
Here’s to the heart of New York,
That beats on the Bowling Green!
Here’s to the men who could meet
Mockers and doubters, with smiles;
And planning for centuries hence,
Lay out their city by miles.
It has spread far out to the North,
It has spread to the East and the West,
Though the men who saw it in dreams,
Now sleep in old Trinity’s breast.
Here’s to the homes that are past!
Here’s to the men that have been!
Here’s to the heart of New York,
That beats on the Bowling Green!
And here’s to the maids of the past!
(They were beautiful maids we know,)
That strolled in the Battery Park,
In the years of the Long Ago.
And though maids of to-day are fair,
(No lovelier ever have been)
They are proud to be called by the names
Of the Belles of the Bowling Green.
Here’s to the men of the past!
Here’s to the maids that have been!
Here’s to the heart of New York,
That beats on the Bowling Green!
_The Belle of Bowling Green_
[Illustration]
CHAPTER ONE
_Monday’s Daughters_
Every city has some locality to which its heroic and civic memories
especially cling; and this locality in the city of New York is the
historic acre of the Bowling Green. With that spot it has been
throughout its existence, in some way or other, unfailingly linked; and
its mingled story of camp and court and domestic life ought to make the
Bowling Green to the citizens of New York all that the Palladium was to
the citizens of ancient Troy. For as the Palladium held in one hand a
pike, and in the other hand a distaff and spindle, so also, the story of
the Bowling Green is one of the pike and the distaff. It has felt the
tread of fighting men, and the light feet of happy maidens; and though
showing a front of cannon, has lain for nearly three centuries at the
open seaward door of the city, like a green hearthstone of welcome.
In the closing years of the eighteenth, and the early years of the
nineteenth century, the Bowling Green was in a large measure surrounded
by the stately homes of the most honourable and wealthy citizens; and
though this class, before the war of 1812, had began to move slowly
northward, it was some years later a very aristocratic quarter,
especially favoured by the rich families of Dutch extraction, who,
having dwelt for many generations somewhere around the Fort and the
Bowling Green, were not easily induced to relinquish their homes in a
locality so familiar and so dear to them.
Thus for nearly one hundred and forty years there had been Bloommaerts
living in the old Beaver Path, and in Bloommaert’s Valley, or Broad
Street, and when Judge Gerardus Bloommaert, in 1790, built himself a
handsome dwelling, he desired no finer site for it than the Bowling
Green. It was a lofty, roomy house of red brick, without extraneous
ornament, but realising in its interior arrangements and furnishings the
highest ideals of household comfort and elegance.
Sapphira, his only daughter, a girl of eighteen years old, was, however,
its chief charm and attraction. No painting on all its walls could rival
her living beauty; and many a young citizen found the road to the Custom
House the road of his desire. For was there not always the hope that he
might catch a glimpse of the lovely Sapphira at the window of her home?
Or meet her walking on the Mall, or the Battery, and perhaps, if very
fortunate, get a smile or a word from her in passing.
All knew that they could give themselves good reasons for their
devotions; they did not bow to an unworthy idol. Sapphira Bloommaert had
to perfection every mystery and beauty of the flesh--dark, lambent eyes,
hardly more lambent than the luminous face lighted up by the spirit
behind it; nut-brown hair, with brows and long eyelashes of a still
darker shade; a vivid complexion; an exquisite mouth; a tall, erect,
slender form with a rather proud carriage, and movements that were
naturally of superb dignity: “the airs of a queen,” as her cousin
Annette said. But Sapphira had no consciousness in this attitude; it was
as natural as breathing to her; and was the result of a perfectly
harmonious physical and moral beauty, developed under circumstances of
love and happiness. All her life days had been full of content; she
looked as if she had been born smiling.
This was exactly what her grandmother Bloommaert said to her one
morning, and that with some irritation; for the elder woman was anxious
about many people and many things, and Sapphira’s expression of pleasant
contentment was not the kind of sympathy that worry finds soothing.
“In trouble is the city, Sapphira, and over that bit of hair-work you
sit smiling, as if in Paradise we were. I think, indeed, you were born
smiling.”
“The time of tears is not yet, grandmother; when it comes, I shall
weep--like other women.”
“Weep! Yes, yes; but one thing remember--deliverance comes never through
tears. Look at Cornelia Desbrosses; dying she is, with her own tears
poisoned.”
“I am sorry for Cornelia; I wish that she had no cause to weep,” and
with these words she did not smile. It had suddenly struck her that
perhaps it was not right or kind to be happy when there was so much fear
and anxiety in her native city. The idea was new and painful; she rose
and went with it to the solitude of her own room; and her mother after
silently watching her exit, said:
“She is so gentle, so easily moved--was it worth while?”
“You think so? Give Sapphira a motive strong enough, and so firm she
will be--so impossible to move. Oh, yes, Carlita, I know!”
“Indeed, mother, she obeys as readily as a little child. Our will is her
will. She bends to it just like the leaves of that tree to the wind.”
“Very good! but there may come a day when to your will she will not
bend; when a rod of finely tempered steel will be more pliant in your
hand than her wish or will. We shall see. She is a very child yet, but
times are coming--are come--that will turn children quickly into men and
women. Our Gerardus, where is he?”
“He left home rather earlier than usual. He was sure there was important
news.” Mrs. Bloommaert spoke coldly. Her mother-in-law always set her
temper on edge with the claim vibrating through the two words “our
Gerardus.” “There is so much talk and nothing comes of it but annoyance
to ourselves,” she continued, “the cry has been war for five years. It
comes not.”
“It is here. At the street corners I saw the bill-man pasting up news of
it. In every one’s mouth I heard it. Alive was the air with the word
_war_; and standing in groups, men were talking together in that
passion of anger that means war, war, and nothing but war.”
“The blood of New York is always boiling, mother. When Gerardus comes he
will tell us if it be war. I shall not be sorry if it is. When one has
been waiting for a blow five long years, it is a relief to have it fall.
Who is to blame? The administration, or the people?”
“As well may you ask whether it is the fiddle, or the fiddlestick, that
makes the tune.”
“At any rate we shall give England a good fight. Our men are not
cowards.”
“Carlita, all men would be cowards--if they durst.”
“Mother!”
“If they durst disobey the nobler instincts which make the lower ones
face their duty.”
“Oh!”
“Carlita, you have no ideas about humanity.”
“I think mother I, at least, understand my husband and sons--as for
Sapphira----”
“More difficult she will be--and more interesting. Peter and Christopher
are all Dutch; they that run may read them, but in Sapphira the Dutch
and French are discreetly mingled. She has tithed your French ancestors,
Carlita--take good heed of her.”
“They were of noble strain.”
“Surely, that is well known. Now I must go home, for I know that Annette
is already afraid, and there is the dinner to order. Pigeons do not fly
into the mouth ready roasted, and Commenia is getting old. She is lazy,
too; but so! The year goes round and somehow we do not find it all bad.”
As she finished speaking, Sapphira came hastily into the room. Her face
was flushed, her eyes flashing, and she cried out with unrestrained
emotion: “Mother! Mother! We must put out our flags! All the houses on
the Green are flagged! Kouba has them ready. He will help me. And you
too, mother? Certainly you will help? Kouba says we are going to fight
England again! I am so proud! I am so happy! Come, come, mother!”
“My dear one, wait a little. Your father will be here soon, and----”
“Oh, no, no! Father may be in court. He is likely with the mayor.
Perhaps he is talking to the people. We can not wait. We must put out
the flags--the old one that has seen battle, and the new one that is to
see it.”
“But Sapphira----”
“I have the flags ready, mother. Come quickly,” and without further
parley she ran with fleet, headlong steps to the upper rooms of the
house. Madame, her grandmother, smiled knowingly at her daughter-in-law.
“The will that is your will?” she asked; “where is it? You can see for
yourself, Carlita.”
“The news seems to be true at last. You had better wait for Gerardus,
mother. He will tell us all about it.”
“The news will find me out in Nassau Street.”
“Commenia can manage without you for one day.”
“There are strawberries to preserve. I like to manage my affairs myself.
I have my own way, and some other way does not please me.”
“Well, then, I shall go to Sapphira. My hands are itching for the flags.
I am sure you understand, mother.”
“Understand! If it comes to that, I made up my mind many years ago about
those English tyrants--and I have not to make it over. I think about
them and their ways exactly as I did when I sent my dear Peter with
Joris Van Heemskirk’s troops to fight them. Gerardus was but a boy
then--ten years old only--but he cried to go with his father. God be
with us! Wives and mothers don’t forget, _O wee! O wee!_”
Her voice softened, she looked wistfully backward and, with outstretched
hand, waved her daughter-in-law upstairs. Then she opened for herself
the wide, front entrance. The door was heavy, but it swung easily to her
firm grip. And yet she was in the seventy-fourth year of her life days.
With a slow but imperious step she took the road to her own home. She
was not afraid of the crowd, nor of the enthusiasm that moved it. At
every turn she was recognised and saluted, for Madame Bloommaert was
part and parcel of the honour of the city, and her bright, handsome face
with its coal-black eyes and eyebrows, and snow-white hair lying like
mist upon its brown temples, was a familiar sight to old and young. She
was rather small of stature, but so disdainfully erect that she gave the
impression of being a tall woman--an illusion aided by the buoyancy of
her temper and the definite character of her movements.
Her home was on lower Nassau Street between Beaver and Marketfield. It
had been her residence for fifty years, and was as perfectly Dutch as
herself in its character. Nothing in the street, however, was more
interesting than this human habitation. It appeared to have created for
itself a sort of soul, so instinct with personality was it. A large
garden surrounded it, though its space had been slowly curtailed as land
in the vicinity became valuable; yet there was still room enough for
some fine shrubbery, a little grass plot, beds of flowers, strawberry
and other vines, and the deep, cool well, with its antique shed full of
bright pewter dishes.
The house itself was of red brick, mellow and warm, and soft to the eyes
with the rains and sunshine of half a century; and nothing could be
finer than its front, sending up sharp points to the sky, with a little
boat weathercock on the tallest point boxing about in the wind. Over the
wide casements a sweetbrier climbed, and nodded its tiny flower; and the
veranda, cunningly carved along the bottom railing in an open leaf
pattern, was a perfect bower of Virginia creeper.
She opened the garden gate, and its mingled perfumes made her sigh with
pleasure. Such boxwood borders, such gay, sweet flowers, such brick
walks laid in zig-zag pattern, and shaded by elm and maple trees are not
to be found in New York city now, but to madame they were only the
beautiful frame of her daily life. She cast her eyes down to see if the
walk had been swept, and then looked up at the house as if it were a
friend. The flag she loved, the flag under which her young husband had
died fighting for liberty, was floating from her window. She stood still
and gazed at it. Without words it spoke to her, and without words she
answered its claim. In a moment she had accepted whatever of trial or
triumph it might bring her.
She went forward more hastily, but, ere she reached the entrance, a very
pretty girl came running to meet her. “Have you heard the news,
grandmother?” she cried. “Are you not very happy? What did Sapphira say?
And Aunt Carlita?--and uncle?--and all of them?”
Madame was unable to answer her questions. She clasped her hand firmly,
and went with her into the house. Straight to the main living room she
went, an apartment in which the dearest portion of her household gods
were enshrined: massive silver services on a richly carved sideboard;
semi-lucent china in the corner cupboard; three pictures of Teniers that
one of her husband’s ancestors had bought from the hands of the great
painter himself; and chairs of antique workmanship that had crossed the
ocean with Samuel Bloommaert in 1629 when he bought Zwanendael, the
Valley of the Swans. The wide, open fireplace of this room was in itself
a picture. The deep cavity at the back and the abutting jambs were
coloured a vivid scarlet, with a wash made from iron dust; the
hearthstone was white as snow with pipeclay, and in front of the heavy
brass irons was a tall blue and white jar with dragons for handles,
holding a bunch of red roses, mingled with green asparagus branches. The
broad chimney piece above this home picture had also its distinctive
charm. It shone with silver candlesticks, their snuffers, and little
trays. It kept the silver posset pan that had made the baby’s food half
a century ago; the christening cups of her son Gerardus and her daughter
Elsie; and two beautiful lacquered tea-caddies from India and China.
Opposite the fireplace, at the end of the room, there was a long table
black with age and heavy with Nuremburg carving; but it was on a small
round one which stood by an open window that a dinner service for two
persons was very prettily laid. Madame sat down in a chair near it, and
Annette took off her scarf and bonnet and long gloves, and chattered
volubly as she did so:
“I know you would like our flag to be out as soon as the rest,
grandmother, and the Yates’ flag was flying, and the Vanderlyns’, and I
had hard work to get ours flying before the Moores’ and the Rivingtons’.
I thought the whole city had gone mad, and I sent Mink and Bass to find
the reason out. They stopped so long! and when they came back, they said
it was because we are going to fight England again. How men do love to
fight, grandmother!”
“When for their liberty and their homes men fight they do well, do they
not?”
“If you had heard Peter Smith talking to a little crowd at our very
gate, you would think men found the reason for their existence in a gun
or a sword. He said we should whip England in about six weeks, and----”
“That is enough, Annette. The sort of rubbish that Peter talks and
simpletons believe I know. We shall win our fight, no doubt of that; but
in six weeks! No, it may as likely be six years.”
“Grandmother! Six years! And will there be no balls, and suppers, and no
lovers for six years? Of course, all the young men who are to be noticed
will prefer fighting to anything else; and what shall I do for a lover,
grandmother?”
“There is always Jose Westervelt.”
“He will not do at all. He is too troublesome. He thinks I ought not to
dance with any one but him; actually he objects to my speaking to some
people, or even looking at them. It is too uncomfortable. I do not like
tyranny--no American girl does.”
“So you rebelled. But then, do you expect to catch fish without wetting
yourself?”
“It has been done.” She was putting on her grandmother’s feet the cloth
slippers she usually wore in the house, and as she rose she perceived
with a smile the delicious odour of the roasted pigeons which a negro
slave was just bringing to the table.
“I told Commenia to roast them, grandmother. I knew you would want
something nice when you got back.”
“Before the fire did she roast them?”
“Yes--on skewers, and basted them with fresh butter. I found enough peas
on the vines, and I pulled and shelled them myself, for it was next to
impossible to keep the blacks off the streets.”
“Thank you, dear one.”
“I have had such a happy year, grandmother, and now, I suppose, all our
gaieties will be ended.”
“Come, come, there will be more gaieties than ever. I am sure that the
Battery will be put in fighting trim; then the Bowling Green, with
soldiers, will be alive. What will follow? Drills and parades, and what
not; and in all the houses round about the Green the women will make
idols of the men in uniform. And to be sure they will show their
adoration by meat offerings and drink offerings; ceremonies, Annette,
which generally end in dancing and love-making.”
“You notice everything, grandmother.”
“I have been young and now I am old; but love never gets a day older.
What love was in the beginning, he is now, and ever shall be. These
pigeons are very good. You said you had some at the Radcliffes’
yesterday--what kind of a dinner did they give?”
“It was a good dinner, but not a dinner to be asked out to; you and I
often have a better one--and there was no dancing, only cards and
games--and Jose Westervelt.”
“Poor Jose!”
“Grandmother, he is so magisterial. He sets up his opinions as if they
were a golden image; and I am not the girl to fall down before them.”
“He is a distinguished mathematician already.”
“And looks it: besides he knows no more of dancing than a Hindoo knows
of skating. Also, since he came back from England, he is so cold and
positive in his views, and so stiff and rigid in his London-made
clothes, that I cannot endure him. Did you see Sapphira, grandmother?”
“Yes. With some hair work she was busy--a finger ring, or brooch or some
such trifle. There will be other work soon, I think. In the last war we
had to make all our own clothing and most of our household necessities.
The last war! Oh, Annette, dear one, I lost everything in the last war!”
“But you are now a rich woman, grandmother.”
“I mean not that. I lost your grandfather; he was everything to me.
There was money, yes; and there was property; but all in a bad way then.
Now; well, it is a little different.”
“However did you manage?”
“I worked and hoped and helped myself and others, and left the rest to
God. While I slept He made things to grow and prosper. And when this war
is over we shall have settled our standing among the nations beyond all
dispute, and New York will stride forward as if she wore the
seven-leagued boots.”
“Then, grandmother, you will build a fine house past Trinity Church--a
good deal past it--perhaps half a mile, or even a mile, and we shall
have a carriage of our own and be among the quality.”
“I shall never leave this house, Annette. But I tell you, my dear
one--you shall go to Washington every season. If your uncle and aunt
Bloommaert go there, that will be sufficient; if not, I have friends who
will see to it. Sapphira grows wonderfully handsome.”
“And I, grandmother?”
“You have your own beauty. You need not to envy any one. Now I am tired
and I will go to my room. I want to take some better counsel than my
own.”
“May I not go to see Sapphira, grandmother? I want to see her very
much.”
“You may not go to-day. Listen; the constant tramp of feet and the noise
of men shouting and gathering grows louder. Stay in your home.”
“It is very tiresome! Men are always quarrelling about something. What
is the use of governments if they can’t prevent war? Any one can settle
a quarrel by fighting over it. I do not see what good fighting does. The
drums parading round will give us headaches, and the men will go
swaggering from one day to another after them. I am in a passion at
President Madison--just too when summer is here, and we were going to
the Springs, and I was sure to have had an enchanting time.”
“Thou little good-for-nothing! Hold thy foolish tongue! If our men are
going to fight it is for thy liberty and thy honour and thy happiness.
Sit still an hour and think of that.”
She shut the door when she had spoken these words, and then went, a
little wearily, upstairs; but if any one had seen her half an hour
afterwards sitting with closed eyes and clasped hands asleep in the
large chair that stood by her bedside, they would have said, “She has
been satisfied.” For though she looked much older when asleep, her face
then showed nothing but that sacred peace and refinement which comes
only through a constant idea of God’s care and presence.
Annette stood still until she heard her grandmother’s door close; then,
after a moment or two of indecision, she took from under the
sofa-cushion a book, and stood it up before her with a comical air of
judgment.
“It is all your fault, you unlucky ‘Children of The Abbey,’” she said
sternly. “If I had been able to get rid of you, I should have gone with
grandmother to Uncle Gerard’s house this morning; and, considering the
news, we should certainly have remained there all day. And as
grandmother says, ‘if the pot boils, it always boils over on the Bowling
Green.’ I ought to have been where I could see and hear all that was
going on. I think Sapphira might have sent for me! People are so
selfish, and affairs always work so contrary. If I try to be unselfish
nothing good comes of it--to me; and if I am reasonably selfish then I
am sure to suffer for it. Grandfather de Vries is right; whenever I go
to see him, he always mumbles to me: ‘see now, love others well, but
thyself most of all.’ Grandfather de Vries is a wise man--every one says
so--and he tells me to love myself best of all. Well, I shall have no
company this afternoon but these silly ‘Children of The Abbey.’ They are
as distractingly absurd as they can be, but I want to know whether they
get married or not.”
She sought this information with great apparent interest, yet ever as
she turned the fascinating leaves, she let the book drop down a minute
while she wondered “what was going on on the Bowling Green.” For she had
that keen impression of “something missed” which frequently and
mockingly informs a person in whom selfishness is ingrained,
unconscious, hereditary.
And her premonition was more than true. Her uncle at that very hour was
standing on the topmost step of the flight leading to his house door,
and there was a crowd of young men before him--a crowd drunk with its
own passionate enthusiasm--who would not be satisfied until he had
spoken. His wife and his daughter stood at his right hand, and at his
left his son Christopher held aloft the torn and stained colours that
had floated above “Bloommaert’s Men” through the heroic days of the War
for Independence. Shout after shout greeted his appearance, and when
there was a moment’s pause, a beautiful youth stepped forward and called
out:
“Speak to us, judge. It is your words we are waiting for.” His hat was
in his hand, and his bare head, crowned with close, clustering curls,
was lifted to the judge. For one moment his eyes sought out Sapphira,
and she caught the glance, and it went to her heart like a ray of
sunshine. Yet it was into her father’s face she smiled as she gently
touched his arm. Then he spoke as if a burning coal had been laid on his
lips, and the very air felt as if set on fire by his words:
“My neighbours, and my fellow citizens!” he cried, “I have hitherto been
bitterly against this war with England; but now, I am for it. With all
my heart and soul, with all my body, with every shilling of my estate I
am for it. I have always been a true and consistent Federalist. But now,
there are no Federalists! there are no Republicans! We are all
Americans! Dutch and English and French and Scotch, all are to-day
Americans! America is the mother of us all. She has nursed us at her
breast. She has made us free from all ancient tyrannies. She has given
us homes and wives and children, filled our granaries with the finest of
the wheat, and set before us the commerce of the whole earth. Shall we
not love her? Shall we not defend her when she is insulted and wronged
and threatened?”
A roar of enthusiastic assent answered these questions.
“If we must fight we will strike no soft blows in battle. We will give
our enemy and the whole world this lesson--that no foreign warships can
safely come blustering and pillaging our coasts. New York is to be
defended, and New Yorkers are the men to defend their native city. Will
you do it?”
He was answered by a shout of affirmation.
“To the last gun?”
“Yes.”
“To the last man?”
“Yes! Yes! You will stand with us, Bloommaert?”
“Living or dead I will stand with you.” Then he took reverently in his
hands the faded glorious rag that Christopher Bloommaert held.
“Look,” he said, in a voice as tender as a woman’s--“look at the flag
that never waved over a coward, the flag to which we lifted our eyes
when all was dark, and saw victory in its stars. It is a flag made for
free men; will you ever let England--ever let any enemy--take it from
you?”
“We will die for it!”
“No, you will live for it! You will carry it from victory to victory and
fly it in the face of all the world--the flag of a free country--the
flag of men that will have nothing else, and nothing less--than absolute
liberty and absolute independence.” As he spoke these words he lifted
the old banner to his lips, and then held it out to the people.
It was an act of allegiance that embraced every soul present, and was
followed by a moment of silence that throbbed with emotion; then the
young man who had spoken for the company looked expressively at his
comrades, and they turned northward to the city, their hearts burning
with a steady fervour of loyalty, and their faces full of that
dauntless hope which of its own energy fulfils itself. Quiet they could
not long be, and when they reached the upper end of the Bowling Green,
they began to sing; softly at first, but gradually gathering into a
rattling vocal melody, the fiery passion of loyalty that filled their
hearts:
“Here’s to the Squire who goes to parade!
Here’s to the citizen soldier!
Here’s to the merchant who fights for his trade
Whom danger increasing makes bolder.
Here’s to the lawyer, who leaving his bar
Hastens where honour doth lead, Sir,
Changing his gown for the ensigns of war,
The cause of his country to plead, Sir!
Freedom appears,
Every heart cheers,
And calls for the help of the brave Volunteers.”
They sang the verse to the gay inspiring music of its old English song,
and then gave lustily the cheers it called for. Their echo floated into
the Bloommaert house, where the family were sitting down to their
belated dinner; for this commonplace event was eagerly accepted as a
relief. To eat and to drink, that would mean help and remission, and
they had felt until feeling had become prostrating and oppressive.
Christopher made the first remark, and this was to quote the last line
of the song, “Calls for the help of the brave Volunteers,” asking after
a short pause, “Is it not so, father?”
“Yes, Christopher. I suppose you will sail soon?”
“As soon as my new ship is ready. Peter is hurrying it forward. I am
impatient to be off.”
“Have you seen Peter to-day?” asked his mother.
“I saw him, but he was far too busy to talk. The hammers ring in his
ship-yard from the first streak of dawn to the last glint of daylight.
And now the demand for ships will be doubled.”
“We shall want soldiers as well as sailors, Christopher,” said the
judge.
“That is true, father, and they will not be to beg nor to seek. This is
a cause that knocks at every man’s door. Leonard Murray is only one of
many rich young men who are raising companies at their own expense.”
“Then it _was_ Leonard Murray with those men who were here an hour ago,”
said Mrs. Bloommaert. “I felt sure of it; but how much he has changed.”
“In some ways, yes; in general he is just the same good fellow he has
ever been. I had a few words with him early this morning, and he asked
me to give his respectful remembrance to you and to Sapphira.”
“It is four or five years since I saw him; where has he been?”
“He was at Yale nearly two years; then he went with a party as far west
as the Mississippi, and down the river to New Orleans. He was staying
with the Edward Livingstons until the rumours of war became so positive
that he could not doubt their truth. Then he sailed from New Orleans to
Norfolk, and so on to Washington. He reached Washington the very day of
the proclamation of war and came so rapidly with the news that Mayor
Clinton received it some hours before the official notice.”
“And every hour is of the greatest importance now,” said the judge.
“Indeed, I have hardly time for my afternoon pipe, for I promised Mr.
Clinton to meet him at four o’clock.”
This information hurried the dinner a little, and Judge Bloommaert took
his smoke very restlessly. After he had left the house, Christopher did
not remain long. His ship’s progress absorbed his thoughts, and he was
not a talkative man. His ardour, his national pride, and his hatred of
oppression were quite as potent factors with Christopher Bloommaert as
with any patriot in New York, but the force they induced was a silent
and concentrated one. On land he seemed to be rather a heavy man, slow
in his movements and short in his speech; but the passion of his nature
was only biding its opportunity, and those who had ever seen Christopher
Bloommaert in action on his own deck knew for all time afterwards what
miracles physical courage set on fire by patriotism and by personal
interest combined might accomplish.
As he was leaving the room he held the open door in his hand a minute,
and said: “Mother, do you know that Aaron Burr is back? He put up his
sign in Nassau Street yesterday; I saw it this morning.”
“Dear me, Chris! I hope he has come to help his country in her
trouble--that would be only right.”
“Help his country! Aaron Burr help! The man is dead.”
“What do you mean, Chris? You said he was back, now you say he is dead.”
“His honour is slain, and all men have lost faith in him. The man is
dead.”
He went away with these words, and Sapphira and her mother watched him
out of sight. For some minutes they did not speak; then Mrs. Bloommaert
asked: “Did you know Leonard Murray this morning, Sapphira?”
“Yes, mother. I knew him at once. I think that he passed the house twice
yesterday. I was not quite sure then, but this morning I had not a
moment’s doubt. I wish Annette had been here. She will be very much
disappointed.”
“Annette would have spoiled everything. I am glad she was not here.”
“Oh, mother!”
“Yes, she would. I will tell you how. When your father was called out,
and took his stand on the topmost step, with Christopher and the flag on
one side of him and you and I on the other side, do you think Annette
would have been satisfied to stand with us? To be only one of a group?
That is not Annette’s idea of what is due to Annette.”
“But what could she have done to alter it?”
“She would have said in her pretty, apologetic way that it was ‘too bad
to crowd us, and that any place was right for her,’ and, before an
answer was possible, she would have slipped past Christopher and seated
herself on the second step at his feet. With her long curls and her
white frock, and the blue snood in her hair, and the flag above her, she
would have made a picture sufficiently lovely to have attracted and
distracted every man present. There would have been but a poor, divided
enthusiasm; and yet, Annette would have been so naturally and so
innocently conspicuous that both your father and Christopher would have
been unconscious of her small, selfish diplomacy.”
“Annette is so pretty.”
“And so vain of her beauty.”
“That is true, but I fancy, mother, even the flowers are vain of their
beauty. I have noticed often how the roses when in full bloom, sway and
bend and put on languishing airs as if they knew they were sweet and
lovely. And, to be sure, I have frequently when I have looked in a
mirror been very glad I had a fair face and a good form.”
“It was a very indiscreet, I may say a very wrong thing to do.”
There was a short, penitential silence, and then Sapphira said:
“Though to-morrow is Sunday, may I go and see Annette early in the
morning? I am sure both grandmother and Annette will like to know about
father’s speech.”
“I can assure you that they know all about it already. Kouba was not
here to wait on your father when he left the house--why? Because he had
gone as fast as possible to his old mistress with the news. Your
grandmother gave him to your father when we were married, but it is only
with his left hand that Kouba has served us. Your grandmother is still
first; he goes to her with all the news of our house; he always has done
so, he always will do so. Nassau Street already knows all--and
more--that happened on the Bowling Green to-day.”
Mrs. Bloommaert was quite correct in her opinion. Kouba had not even
waited to eat his dinner, but had gone at once to “old mistress” with
his own account of the event. And as madame was in her room asleep,
Annette had been made the recipient of his views. She listened and she
understood, without inquiry or dissent, where the information was
truthful and where Kouba was embroidering the occurrence with his
personal opinions. She accepted all apparently with equal faith, and
then told the old man to “go to the kitchen and get his dinner and a
bottle of ‘Sopus beer.”
“What an exciting event!” she exclaimed, “and Kouba is sure that Leonard
Murray was the leader of the crowd. I believe it. It was Leonard I saw
with the Clark boys half an hour ago. I dare say he is staying with
them. I must go and tell grandmother.”
She found madame awake, and quickly gave her Kouba’s news. And it was
really a little comfort to Annette to see her grandmother’s
disappointment. “So sorry am I that I came away,” she said, “for a
great deal I would not have missed that scene, Annette.”
“No, indeed, grandmother! I think it will be very hard to sit here all
evening and not know what is going on; shall we walk over to uncle’s
now?”
“Three hours after lunch? No!”
“Kouba said the Clark boys were in the crowd; suppose I write and ask
Mrs. Clark and Elsie and Sally to take tea with us. Then the men will
come later, and we shall hear whatever there is to hear.”
“The Clarks may not care to come.”
“Yes they will. Let me write and ask them. We do want some one to talk
to, grandmother.”
Permission being at last obtained, Annette wrote one of her nicest notes
and they sent it with a slave woman across the street to the Clarks’
house. Mrs. Clark read it, laughed, and then called her daughter Sally.
“Sally,” she said, “that little minx over the way has found out that
Leonard Murray is here. Answer this invitation as pleasantly as
possible, but tell her we cannot leave our own home to-night, as we have
company.”
“We might ask Annette here, mother.”
“That is what she expects us to do.”
“She is so pretty and cheerful.”
“We will do without her beauty and her cheerfulness to-night.”
“Joe is very fond of her.”
“That is not the question; answer as I have told you.”
But though Sally made the answer as kind as her own kind heart, nothing
atoned to Annette for the fact that her little scheme--though one with a
double aspect--had failed in both directions.
“They cannot come, grandmother, and they do not even ask us over
there--they have company. I know who it is, for I am sure I saw Leonard
Murray with the Clark boys an hour ago. But then----”
“What?”
“Sally is really ugly, and though Elsie has a pretty face, she is as
dowdy as can be.”
“And so much prettier is Annette de Vries--is that what you mean?”
“Yes, that is ‘the because’ of the slight.”
“Of such a thing I would not think. ‘The because’ has nothing to do with
us. And a very sweet girl is Sally Clark. Every one loves her.”
“Don’t scold me, grandmother. I have had already three disappointments.
To-day is very unlucky.”
“Then sit still and let it go by. Take the days as they come to you,
child.”
Annette did not immediately answer. She had gone to the window and was
looking eagerly out. There was a sound of footsteps and of voices in
spirited conversation. Listening and looking, she waited until voices
and footsteps became faint in the distance. Then she turned to her
grandmother with a shrug of satisfaction:
“I was right, as I generally am,” she said. “The Clark boys, with
Leonard Murray, have just gone by. Leonard is their company. What is he
there for? He never used to care for those girls. Before he went to
college ‘from Sapphira to Sapphira was the limit of his way.’”
“Thou foolish one! He is none of thy affair.”
“I do not care a button for Leonard Murray, but I think my cousin
Sapphira does, and--and----”
What other reasons she had were not revealed. She stood at the window
with an air of mortification, which, however, soon turned to one of
pride and triumph; and then she tapped the glass merrily to her
thoughts.
What was the girl dreaming of? Beauty’s conquests? Social power? Love
after her own heart? A marriage which would hand in her millennium?
Alas, for the dreams of youth! Madame watched her in pitying
silence--she knew how they would end.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER TWO
_The Spring of Life_
To the roll of the drum and the shrill call of the fife the days went in
a manner that was far from being disagreeable to the youthful population
of New York. They enjoyed the thrill of a fear that was mingled with
much excitement; and for a short period almost a license of political
and patriotic temper prevailed. But to the more responsible citizens the
news of war was far from welcome; so unwelcome, indeed, that only a few
days before its proclamation, two petitions had been presented to the
Senate signed by three hundred and ten citizens of New York, and by
nearly all of the largest mercantile houses, praying that the embargo
might be continued, “because they believed it would produce all the
benefits of war without its calamities.” Mr. Justice Bloommaert had been
one of the signers of this petition, and when he recovered the equipoise
of his usually calm nature, he was astonished and a little annoyed at
the precipitancy with which he had publicly changed his opinions. It was
in a measure unaccountable, and he searched all the outlying posts of
his inmost soul to see where the weak point had been. It was not his
wife’s sarcasms or his daughter’s more pronounced sympathy--he was used
to their wordy warfare, and he was sure that no persuasive force in
their armoury would have driven him to the ill-advised hastiness of his
unpremeditated speech on the Bowling Green.
No, it was “the doing of that young fool, Leonard Murray.” The judge had
returned to his home that momentous Saturday in a passionate temper of
hatred to England and her old tyrannies. He had been irritated by the
lukewarmness and doleful prophecies of the majority of his friends and
associates, and by the fact that every newspaper in the city was opposed
to the war. And then, while his wife and daughter were stimulating his
feverish mood of disapproval, he had suddenly been called to the front
to stand by the opinions of others and to declare his own. He felt that
somehow he had been tricked by circumstances, and his hand forced; and
that young Leonard Murray was to blame for the whole affair. He had
never liked the lad’s father, and having been twice obliged to decide
important cases against him, the elder Murray had shown his resentment
in ways that had been both irritating and injurious. They had also been
distinctly opposed in politics, and, moreover, in their youth had been
rivals for the love of the pretty Carlita Duprey. Now, the son of this
disagreeable man had apparently taken up his father’s power to be at
least unfavourable to him. He worked himself into a still, hot passion
against the youth, and determined then and there to have nothing more to
do with him.
Not that he intended to recede from any word he had uttered. He told
himself instantly that he had only declared the truth, and that he would
stand for, and by, every letter of his speech. But he wished that he had
made that speech voluntarily, in some regularly called meeting, and not
in response to a request voiced by young Leonard Murray. That was the
sore point of the hurt, so that he hardly touched it, even in thought,
but reverted at once to his speech, which struck him now as
grandiloquent, turgid, and bombastic--not the kind of speech he would
have made in the City Hall or at the Common Council by any means, and a
tingling sense of chagrin answered this conviction. It was thoughts
similar to these which surged with passionate strength through his mind
as he stood on the following Wednesday afternoon on the steps of the
City Hall. There had just been a public meeting in the park, called to
approve the war measure, but it had been very scantily attended; and as
the noisy crowd scattered, mainly up and down Broadway, he hardly knew
whether he was glad or sorry for the failure. The uproarious conduct of
the youth of the city offended him, and as a general thing the men of
experience, of solid wealth and political power, had not answered the
call for this meeting. For it was a Democratic call, and New York at
that day was the very stronghold of the Federalists.
He stood a few minutes considering which streets would likely be the
quietest road to his home, and seeing Broadway full of marching
companies, all more or less musical and vociferous, he turned into
Nassau Street, hoping to escape the cheers and attentions which his
outspoken sympathy had brought him. For some distance it was
comparatively quiet, but between Garden and Beaver streets he saw
approaching what appeared to be a full company. They were stepping
proudly to the music of “The President’s March,” and the narrow street
appeared to Bloommaert’s eyes to be full of their waving flags.
There was no outlet for his escape, and he assumed a dignity of bearing
and a self-centred air that was usually both arms and armour to him. He
hoped to pass unnoticed, but as the company approached it halted at
command. His name was spoken. He lifted his eyes perforce and up flew
every hat in respectful recognition. What could he do? Some of them were
the very men he had addressed and aroused to enthusiasm on the previous
Saturday. His noblest nature came to the front. He saluted them in
return, wished them “God speed,” and so passed on, but not before he had
noticed the happy, triumphant face of their captain, Leonard Murray.
“That man again!” he muttered, and he could not dismiss “that man” from
his memory during the rest of the walk. He passed his mother’s house but
did not enter it, for it was nearing his dinner hour, and he hoped in
the society of his wife and daughter to find the restful equipoise he
had lost during the morning’s events. As he mounted the steps Sapphira
threw open the door. Her face was radiant. She was the incarnation of
pleasure.
“Father,” she cried, “I am so glad that you have come home early. I have
such good news. Mother and I have had such a great honour; you can’t
tell how happy we both feel.”
Her visible joy was infectious, and Bloommaert flung his annoyance out
of memory. “Come, now,” he said cheerfully, “let us hear the good news.
Who brought it to you?”
“Well, you would never guess, dear father, and I am going to let mother
tell you.”
They entered the dining room as she spoke, and its cool sweetness was
like a breath of heaven. Mrs. Bloommaert rose with a smile.
“Gerardus, my dear!” she exclaimed, “you are earlier than I hoped. That
is good. Now we shall have dinner.”
“But Carlita, first the good news that Sapphira can hardly keep from
me.”
“Has she not told you?”
“No. She says you are to tell me.”
“Well, then, it is very pleasant to her, and to me. Leonard Murray came
here this morning just after you left. He had hoped to find you still at
home--and he wanted us to select the uniform for his company. They are
to fight under our colours, you see! He had many patterns of cloth with
him, and we chose dark blue for the coats, and orange for the vest, and
the head dress is to be dark blue cap with a rosette and streamers of
red, white, and blue! The tricolour, my dear one--that was for my
nation, and the blue and orange, that was for yours. Leonard was
delighted. He is going to pay for the uniforms and support the company
until the city puts it in active service. Then it will fight under our
colours. Was it not kind and respectful of Leonard?”
“It was a piece of damned impertinence. I never heard of such
impudence!”
“Father!”
“Gerardus, I am astonished at you!”
“The insolent puppy! What right had he? How dare he?”
“Mr. Justice, he only did what every young man of standing has done: the
Clarksons, the Fairlies, the Westervelts, the Moores--every family of
consideration has given its colours to some company or other. It is an
honour, Mr. Justice, a great honour, and we are very proud of it. I told
Leonard so.”
“Leonard, indeed! It seems that you are already very familiar.”
“Already! It is a long already. I have known the boy from the hour of
his birth. His mother was my friend when we were both little girls. I
was with his mother when she died. I promised her to be kind to Leonard
whenever I had opportunity--the opportunity came this morning--I
thought you would be pleased--and proud--but then, one never knows a
man’s real feelings--never! After last Saturday, too--it is
inconceivable.” Mrs. Bloommaert rose, and as her daughter followed her
the judge was left alone with whatever answer he intended to make.
Generally, when an antagonist withdraws, the party left in possession of
the ground feels a sense of victory. He tosses his head a little and
triumphs in the fashion that best suits him. But Judge Bloommaert,
standing with his doubled-up hand on his dining table, had a sinking
sense of defeat. His large, dignified personality succumbed as the two
slender slips of womanhood passed him--Carlita’s haughty little head
expressing a disdainful disapproval, and Sapphira giving him a look from
eyes full of reproachful astonishment.
A natural instinct led him to sit down in order to consider his ways.
“What the deuce!” he exclaimed. “Confound the fellow! What does it all
mean?” Then his logical mind began to reflect, to deliberate, to weigh
his own case as relentlessly as if it was the case of a stranger. The
result was a decision in favour of his wife’s and his daughter’s
position. From their standpoint he had been unreasonable and
inconsistent. And he could put in no demurrer; for the only objection he
was able to make lay in that covert dislike to the young man for which
he was unable to give any reason that would not be more humiliating than
simple submission.