in spotless white linen, entered the room. He was carrying a platter
containing a sirloin of roast beef, and the appetising odour, blended
with the fragrance of the fresh peas,--boiled with the sprig of mint
they call for,--stimulated the judge to the necessary action. He rose
promptly and went to the sitting room in the rear. At the door he heard
Sapphira and her mother talking, but they were instantly silent as he
entered. That was a symptom he did not regard. He knew the tactics that
were always successful, and with a smile and a courtly bow he offered
his arm to Mrs. Bloommaert. The courtesy was made invincible by the
glance that accompanied it--a glance that was explanation, apology, and
admiration sent swiftly and indisputably to her heart. Words would have
been halting and impotent in comparison, and they were ignored. The only
ones spoken referred to the waiting meal. “Dinner is served, Carlita,”
and Carlita, with an answering glance of pardon and affection, proudly
took the arm offered her. Ere they reached the door Sapphira was
remembered, and her father stretched backward his hand for her clasp.
Thus they entered the dining room together, and almost at the same
moment they were joined by Christopher.
He was hot and sunburned but full of quiet satisfaction. He laid his arm
across his mother’s neck as he passed her, and taking a seat next to his
sister clasped her little hand lovingly under the table.
With beaming eyes she acknowledged this token of his affection, and
then touching a piece of pale blue ribbon tied through a buttonhole of
his jacket, she asked:
“Pray, Chris, who is now your patron saint? Last year it was good St.
Nicholas, and orange was all your cry. Why have you forsaken your old
patron and changed your colours?”
Chris laughed a little. “I was caught unaware, Sapphira,” he answered.
“As I came up Cedar Street I saw Mary Selwyn cutting roses in Mr.
Webster’s garden. She had a rose at her throat, and a rose in her hair,
and a basket of roses in her hand, and she was as sweet and as pretty as
any rose that ever bloomed in all New York. And she said ‘Good-morning,
Captain Bloommaert; I hear you are soon for the ocean, and the enemy,
and God be with you!’ And I said, ‘So soon now, Miss Selwyn, that this
must be our good-bye, I think.’ Then she lifted her scissors and cut
from the ribbon round her neck the piece I am wearing. ‘It is the full
half,’ she said, ‘and I will keep the other half till you come home
again happy and glorious.’”
“Well, then, it is your luck ribbon, Chris, and you must not change it,”
said Sapphira.
“In a very few minutes I was under great temptation to do so, Sapphira.
I thought I would call on grandmother, but as I got near to her house I
saw Walter Havens just leaving the gate. He was walking very proudly,
and a flutter of red ribbon was on his head, and the next step showed me
a flutter of white skirts behind the vines on the veranda. So I knew
cousin Annette had been setting him up till he felt as if he had twenty
hearts instead of only one.”
“Did you speak to Annette after that observation?” asked his father.
“Why yes, sir. She saw me at once, and came running to open the gate.
She had all her airs and graces about her and looked as radiant as the
red ribbons she wore. She saw my blue ribbon immediately, and said
scornfully, ‘Pray now, whose favour is that affair tied in your
buttonhole? It is a poor thing, Chris! Shall I not give you an inch or
two of my solitaire?’ and she lifted the housewife at her belt, and
would have taken out her scissors. But I said, ‘No, no, Miss de Vries,
I’m not taking shares with Walter Havens. I’ll just hold on to my ‘poor
thing.’ I wonder how many rose ribbons you have given away this
morning?”
“Did she tell you how many, Chris?” asked Mrs. Bloommaert.
“She looked as if she might have given a hundred, but she kept her
secret--you may trust Annette to keep anything that belongs to her--even
her secrets; and most women give them away. Annette de Vries knows
better.”
“What did grandmother say?” asked Sapphira.
“I did not see her. She was in her room, asleep, Annette said. They are
coming here this evening--with the Clarks, and perhaps others. You won’t
mind, mother, will you?”
“Indeed I shall be glad, if you wish it, Chris.” For her heart had
comprehended that his “good-bye” to Miss Selwyn meant that he was ready
for sea. And it was Christopher’s habit to slip away on some night, or
early morning tide, when there was no one around to embarrass his
orders. For he was not a man that either liked or needed the approbation
and sympathies of others; as a rule, Christopher Bloommaert’s approval
was sufficient for him.
He was evidently full of business, and went away as soon as he had
finished his dinner. The judge went with him, and Mrs. Bloommaert and
her daughter, left alone, began instantly to discuss the subject of
Christopher’s departure.
“It is his way,” said Mrs. Bloommaert. “The little party this evening is
his farewell. We must make it as pleasant as possible. Your grandmother
and Annette will be here, I suppose?”
“And the Clarks--Elsie and Sally, and Joe and Jack--and I suppose
Leonard Murray will come with them,” answered Sapphira.
“I should not wonder if Chris asked Miss Selwyn also.”
“Very likely. She is a nice girl. I hope Chris did ask her. No one can
help loving Mary Selwyn.”
“What shall we do? What would Chris like best? You know, Sapphira, if
any one knows.”
“Let us have tea at six o’clock, then we can all go to the Battery to
hear the music. There is a young moon, and it is warm enough to make the
sea breezes welcome. Moffat’s Military Band is to play from the portico
of the flagstaff to-night, and we can have ices and cakes and wine
served to us in the enclosure if we want them.”
“You had better return home about nine o’clock, and I will have
refreshments here ready for you. The large parlour can be somewhat
cleared, Bose will bring his violin, and you might have a little dance.
I don’t believe father will mind. He knows Chris is ready to sail. I
could see that.”
“Oh, mother! Oh, dear mother, how good you are!”
The preparations for this rather impromptu gathering gave Mrs.
Bloommaert very little trouble. Her servants were slaves, born in her
own household, and whose share in all the family joy was certain and
admitted. They entered heartily into the necessary arrangements, and in
a short time the house had put on that air of festal confusion which the
prospect of feasting and dancing entails.
Before six the guests began to arrive, and the eight or ten which
Christopher’s speech had suggested speedily became twenty. It appeared
as if the young man had casually invited all of his acquaintances. But
Mrs. Bloommaert made every one welcome, and the slight difficulty in
seating them--the little crush and crowding--really induced a very
spontaneous and unconstrained happiness. Then there was trouble in
serving all rapidly enough, so Christopher, and Joe Westervelt and
Willis Clark volunteered their services, and to these three Mrs.
Bloommaert herself added Leonard Murray, whom she appointed her special
aid; and thus the tea became a kind of parlour picnic. The windows were
all open, the white curtains swaying gently in the breeze, and the
scent of roses everywhere mingled with the delightful aromas of fine
tea, and spiced bread, and fresh, ripe strawberries. Merry talk and
happy laughter thrilled the warm air, and it was a joy in itself to
watch so many bright, young faces, all keenly responsive to the pleasure
of each other’s presence.
Before seven o’clock they were ready for their walk on the Battery, and
came trooping down the wide stairway, a brilliant company of lovely
girls in their spencers of various coloured silks, and their pink or
white frocks, their gipsy straw bonnets, and their low walking shoes
fastened with silver or paste latchets. In twos and threes they
sauntered along the lovely walk, and as the young moon rose, the band
played sweetly from a boat on the water, and the waves broke gently
against the wall of the embankment, their laughter and merry talk became
lower and quieter. They rested on the benches, and made little
confidences, and were very happy, though their joy was lulled and
hushed, as if for this rare hour some friendly spirit had pressed gently
down the soft pedal on life, and thus made its felicity more enchanting
and more personal.
But if they forget the dance, their little feet had memories; they began
to twitch and slip in and out, and grow restless; and Sapphira
remembered the hour, though Leonard was charming, and the tale he was
telling her, wonderful. “But then,” she said, “mother is expecting us,
and those at home must not be disappointed; for if there is anything
grandmother likes, it is to watch the dance.” So they went back to the
Bloommaert house and found all ready and waiting for the cotillion.
Upstairs with fleetest steps went the merry maidens, returning in less
than ten minutes without their spencers, and with feet shod in satin
sandals. The fiddles were twanging, and the prompter already advising
gentlemen to choose their partners. Then the room became a living joy.
The hearts of all beat with the twinkling steps of the dancers, and
every one seized a measure of fleeting bliss, and for a breathing space
in life forgot that they would ever grow weary or ever have to part.
Madame sat in her son’s chair, flushed and smiling, her eyes wandering
between her granddaughters. They were certainly the most beautiful women
in the room, and when the judge came quietly to her side about ten
o’clock she said to him: “Look once at Annette; at her feet are half the
men; and as for Sapphira, I know not what to make of her--all of the men
are her lovers, but some one was telling me it is Leonard Murray only
that pleases her. I take leave to say they are a handsome couple,
Gerardus.”
Involuntarily he followed his mother’s direction, and was forced to
admit the truth of her remark. But it gave him an angry pain to do so,
while the young man’s expression of rapturous satisfaction provoked him
beyond words. He had Sapphira’s hand, they were treading a measure--not
so much to the music of the violins as to the music in their own hearts.
They had forgotten the limitations of life, they were in some rarer and
diviner atmosphere. Step to step, with clasped hands, and eyes beaming
into each other’s face, they glided past him as if they were immortals
moving to spheral music.
But beautiful as this vision of primal joy was, it roused no response in
Judge Bloommaert’s heart, and after a few words with madame he slipped
away to the quiet of his room. He was wakeful and restless, and he
lifted the papers in a case which had some personal interest for him,
and soon became absorbed in their details. Yet he was aware of that
inevitable decrease of mirth which follows its climax, and not
ill-pleased to hear the breaking up of the gathering. The chattering of
the girls resuming their spencers and walking shoes made him lay down
his papers and go to the open window, and so he watched the dissolution
of happiness; for the company parted, even at his own door, into small
groups, some merely crossing to the other side of the Green, others
going to Wall, State, Cedar, and Nassau streets. The later party seemed
the larger contingent, and he heard the men of it, as they passed
northward, begin to sing, “We be Three Poor Mariners.” Christopher’s
voice rang out musically cheerful, and the father’s heart swelled with
love and pride, as he said tenderly, “God bless the boy.” The prayer was
an exorcism; anger and all evil fled at the words of blessing, so that
when Mrs. Bloommaert, flushed and weary, came to him he was able to meet
her with the sympathy she needed.
“Gerardus, my dear one,” she said, “Chris bade me good-bye; I am sure of
it. He laid his cheek against mine and whispered, ‘A short farewell,
mother!’ and all I could say was ‘God bless you, Chris!’”
“It was enough.”
“When does he sail?”
“About four o’clock in the morning. He will go out on the tide-top,
then.”
“Where is he going?”
“To the Connecticut coast first, for supplies; easier got there than
here; afterwards he goes nobody knows where, but as the Domine said last
Sunday, he can’t go where God is not.”
“In that I trust. Did you notice the blue ribbon in his jacket?”
“Yes, I noticed.”
“He seemed very fond of Mary to-night. I could not help seeing his
devotion. Mother noticed it, also.”
“What did mother say?”
“She said Mary was a good girl, of good stock, but she had not a dollar.
I said, ‘love was everything in marriage, and that money did not much
matter.’”
“Hum--m--! It does no harm.”
Then there was a short silence; madame was removing her lace cap and
collar, and the judge putting away his papers. Both were thinking of the
same thing, and neither of them cared to introduce the subject. But the
judge’s patience was the better trained, and he calmly waited for the
question he was sure would not be long delayed.
She rose as she asked it, went to her dressing table, and began to open
her jewel box. “Did you notice Sapphira and Leonard Murray dancing? I
thought I saw you watching them.”
“Yes, I saw them, and to tell you just what I thought of the exhibition
would only pain you, Carlita. Don’t ask me.”
“I am sure I don’t know why I am not to ask you; every one was charmed
with their grace. Even the elegant Mr. Washington Irving said their
movements were ‘the poetry of motion.’ I thought it a very fine remark.”
“Well, I suppose Mr. Washington Irving knows all about the poetry of
motion. But if you will believe me, Carlita, there are some Dutchman in
New York who do not worship Mr. Washington Irving.”
Then there was another silence, and this time the judge broke it.
“Carlita,” he said, “what are you going all around the square to ask me?
Speak out, wife.”
“Well, Gerardus, any one can see that Leonard Murray is in love with
Sapphira, and that Sapphira is not indifferent to him. I want to ask you
if this marriage would be suitable, because if you are against it, their
intimacy ought to be checked at once.”
“How are you going to check it? Tell me that. We cannot shut her up in
her room and set a watch over her, nor can we pack her off to Hong Kong
or Timbuctoo--out of his way.”
“Then you are against it?”
“Yes.”
“But what for?”
“I am not ready to give you my reasons.”
“I cannot imagine what they may be. Leonard is rich.”
“Very. Colonel Rutgers told me his estate in land and houses and ready
cash might be worth seven hundred thousand dollars. But, as you reminded
me in regard to Mary Selwyn, money in matrimony does not much matter.”
“I don’t think it is as important as love; though, as you said, money
does no harm to matrimony. But it is not only money, with Leonard. He is
of good family.”
“His great-grandfather was a Highland Scot, and James Murray, his
father, cared for nothing but money. It was a bit of land here, and a
dollar or two there--a hard man, both to friend and foe. I never liked
him. We came to words often, and to blows once--that was about you,
Carlita.”
“You had no need to quarrel about me. From the first to last it has been
you, Gerardus; you, and only you.”
“Yet after we were engaged, James Murray asked you to marry him. No
honourable man would have done such a thing.”
“Have you not forgotten? The man is dead. Let his faults be left in
silence.”
“I do not like to see you so partial to his son.”
“The son is his mother’s son. He has qualities the very opposite of his
father’s. James Murray was a bigot and a miser. Leonard has the broadest
and most tolerant views.”
“There, you have said plenty. If there is any man not to be trusted, it
is this broad, tolerant fellow. You remember Herman Strauss? He is that
kind of character, brought up in the Middle Dutch Church, he married an
Episcopalian, and without difficulty--being so broad--he went with her
to Trinity. He praised the Democrats--Clintonian and Madisonian
both--and yet he called himself a Federalist--thought that both were
right in some ways. But like all men of this uncertain calibre, he had
one or two trifling opinions, of no consequence whatever, either to
himself or others, for whose sake he would lose money and friends, and
even risk his life. It was only a question as to the brand of wine Mr.
Jefferson drank, that made him insult Colonel Wilde, and in consequence
fight a duel which has left him a cripple for life. So much for your man
of wide sympathies and broad views! I like a man who has positive
opinions and sticks to them. Yes, sticks to them, right or wrong! A man
who sticks to his opinions will stick to his friends and his family.
Good in everything! Good in every one! _Nonsense!_ Such ideas lead to
nowhere, and to nothing. The man that holds them I do not want to marry
my daughter.”
“Mrs. Clark says Leonard’s moral character is beautiful.”
“Mrs. Clark has known him about four days. And pray, what does Mrs.
Clark, or you, or any other woman know about a man’s moral character?
Leonard Murray’s ancestors have been for centuries restless,
quarrelsome, fighting Highlandmen. He is not twenty-two yet, and he has
been as far west and south as he could get, and only came home because
there was likely to be some fighting on hand.”
“But then, Gerardus--what have you behind you?”
“Centuries full of God-fearing Dutchmen--honest traders and peaceable
burghers and scholarly domines.”
“Oh, yes, and _Beggars of the Sea_, and men who fought with De Ruyter
and Tromp, and wandered to the ends of the earth with Van Heemskirk for
adventures, and came with the Englishman, Henry Hudson, here itself, and
did a little good business with the poor Indians. And Gerardus, look at
your own sons--Christopher is never at home but when he is at sea. He is
happier in a ship than a house, and also he likes the ship to carry
cutlasses and cannon. As for Peter, you know as well as I do that if he
were not building ships he would be sailing them. He loves a ship better
than a wife. He knows all about every ship he ever built--her length and
breadth and speed, how much sail she can carry, how many men she
requires to manage her, and he calls them by their names as if they were
flesh and blood. Does Peter ever go to see a woman? No; he goes to see
some ship or other. Now then, what influence have your honest traders
and peaceable burghers had on your sons?”
“My dear Carlita, don’t you see you are running away with yourself? You
are preaching for my side, instead of your own. Chris and Peter are
results, so is Leonard Murray. You can’t put nature to the door,
Carlita. Nature is more than nurture; all that our home and education
and trading surroundings could do for boys, was done for Peter and
Chris; but nature was ahead of us--she had put into them the wandering
salt drops of adventure that stirred ‘The Beggars,’ and Tromp, and Van
Heemskirk. I tell you truly, Carlita, that the breed is more than the
pasture. As you know, the cuckoo lays her eggs in any bird’s nest; it
may be hatched among blackbirds or robins or thrushes, but it is always
a cuckoo. And so we came back to my first position, that a man cannot
deliver himself from his ancestors.”
“I do not care, Gerardus, about ancestors; I look at Leonard just as he
is to-day. And I wish you would tell me plainly what to do. Or will you,
yourself, let Leonard know your mind on this subject? Perhaps that would
be best.”
“How can I speak to him? Can I refuse Sapphira until he asks for her?
Can I go to him and say, ‘Sir, I see that you admire my daughter, and I
do not intend to let you marry her.’ That would be offering Sapphira and
myself for insult, and I could not complain if I got what I asked for.”
“Is there anything I can do, seeing that you object so strongly to
Leonard?”
“Yes, you can tell Sapphira how much I feel about such an alliance; you
can show her the path of obedience and duty; and I expect you to do this
much. I did not like mother’s attitude about him at all, and I shall
speak to her myself. Sapphira must be made to feel that Leonard Murray
is impossible.”
“Well, Gerardus, I will speak to the poor little one. Oh, I am so sorry
for her--she will feel it every way so much; but some fathers don’t
care, even if they turn a wedding into a funeral.”
“Such words are not right, nor even true. I care for Sapphira’s welfare
above everything.”
“Speak to mother; I wish you would. She will not refuse Leonard if he
asks her for Annette. And Annette is already in love with him, I am not
deceived in that. She was white with envy and jealousy to-night.”
“Is Annette in it?”
“Yes, and very much so, I think.”
“Then I give up the case. No man can rule right against three or four
women. I am going to sleep now, and I hope it may be a long time before
I hear Leonard Murray’s name again.”
His hope had but a short existence. When he entered the breakfast room
the following morning, the first thing he saw was Sapphira bending over
a basket of green rushes, running over with white rosebuds. She turned
to him a face full of delight.
“See, father,” she cried. “Are they not lovely? Are they not sweet? If
you kiss me, you will get their dew upon my lips.”
He bent his head down to the fragrant flowers, and then asked: “Where
did you get them so early in the morning?”
“Leonard Murray sent them. Let me pin this bud on the lapel of your
coat.”
“No,” he said bitterly, pushing the white hand and the white flower
away. “Go to your room, and take the flowers with you. I will not have
them in any place where I can see them.” Then a negro boy entering, he
turned to him, and ordered his breakfast in a tone and manner that
admitted of no delay nor dispute.
Sapphira had lifted her basket, but as soon as they were alone she
asked: “Did you mean those unkind words, father?”
“Every one of them.” He shuffled his coffee cup, let the sugar tongs
fall, and then rang the bell in a passion. Yet he did not escape the
pathetic look of astonished and wounded love in Sapphira’s eyes as she
left the room, with the basket of rosebuds clasped to her breast.
All day this vision haunted him. He wished to go home long before the
usual hour, but that would have been a kind of submission. He said he
had a headache, but it was really a heartache that distressed him, and
during a large part of the day he was debating within himself how such
an unhappy position had managed to subjugate him in so short a period of
time. For, if any one a week previously had told him he could be
controlled in all his tenderest feelings by a dislike apparently so
unreasonable, he would have scoffed the idea away. He said frequently
to himself the word “unreasonable,” for that was the troublesome,
exasperating sting of the temptation. The young man himself had done
nothing that any fair or rational person would consider offensive--quite
the contrary; and yet he was conscious of an antagonism that was
something more than mere dislike--something, indeed, that might easily
become hatred.
He had just admitted the word “hatred” to his consciousness as he
reached the entrance of the Government House. The day had at last worn
itself away, wearily enough, to the dinner hour. He might now go home
and face whatever trouble he had evoked.
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Justice.”
He turned, and the light of a sudden idea flashed into his face, when he
saw the man who had accosted him.
“Good-afternoon to you, Mr. Attorney Willis. I am just thinking about
that case you defended a few days ago--the case of the man Gavazzio. A
strange one, rather.”
“A very strange case. He stabbed a man for no reason whatever; simply
said he hated him, and seemed to think that feeling justification
enough.”
“See the Italian consul about him. I do not think he had broken any
Italian law--that is, there are unwritten laws among these people, of a
force quite as strong as the written code. We must take that fact into
consideration with the sentence. The stabbed man is recovering, I
hear?”
“Oh, yes; I will see the consul, as you desire it. Gavazzio most
certainly thought we were interfering in his private affairs by
arresting him.”
“I have no doubt of it. Well, Mr. Attorney, the law is supreme, but we
must not forget that the essence of the law is justice. Good-day, sir.”