judge and Peter were seating their guests, and every one was for the
moment silent and attentive. Madame, his mother, had the head of the
table, and every guest saluted her as they passed to their own seats.
And what a goodly company it was! Such sturdy, stalwart men; such
rosy-faced, comfortable-looking, handsome women! such good-will and
fellow-feeling! such amiable admiration of each other’s dress and
appearance! And when the slaves brought in, at shoulder height, the hot
savoury dishes, such simultaneous delight to find them the Hollandish
delicacies, which now remain to us only in printed descriptions; yes,
even to the little saucers of that dear condiment made of pickled and
spiced red cabbage, once so welcome and necessary to the Dutch palate.
And pray, what mouth once familiar with its savour and flavour and
relish could resist the delicately thin, purple strips? Olives were
already taking its place at the tables of the high-bred citizens, who
loved French fashions and French cooking; but among these old-fashioned,
picturesque figures, its antique, homely taste and aspect was surely
beautiful and fitting. At any rate, there was no one at Judge
Bloommaert’s dinner table who would not have passed by caviare or olives
or any other condiment in its favour.
Who has ever written down happiness? and what superfluity of words would
describe the good fellowship of the next hour? There was no “hush” on
any source of innocent pleasure. With the good food went good wine and
good company, and above all, and through all, a good fellowship bounded
by the strongest of public and private ties.
And as the more substantial dishes gave place to fruits and confections,
the nobler part of the feast took its precedency. The wine was
consecrated to patriotism and friendship, in heartfelt toasts; and one
of the earliest, and the most enthusiastic, was given to Madame Jonaca
Bloommaert. It was a spontaneous innovation, roused by her beautiful old
age, and her young enthusiasm, and she was for a moment embarrassed by
the unexpected. Only for a moment; then she rose erect as a girl, her
face kindling to her emotions, and in a clear voice answered the united
salutation:
“My friends, I thank you all. There has been much talk of the Dutch and
of the Americans. Well, then, I am a Dutchwoman, and I am an American.
Both names are graven on my soul. America is my home, America is my
native land, and I would give my own life for her prosperity. But also,
Holland is my _Vaderland_! and my _Moederland_! I have never seen it, I
never shall see it, but what then? When our _Vaderland_ and _Moederland_
is lost to sight, good Dutchmen, and good Dutchwomen, _find it in their
hearts_!” Her thin hands were clasped over her breast, her eyes full of
a solemn ecstacy; for that moment she put off the vesture of her years,
and stood there, shining in the eternal youth of the soul.
In the midst of feelings not translatable she sat down, and as the
little tumult subsided Peter Bloommaert rose, and said:
“My dear grandmother has opened our hearts for the song my brother
Chris wrote, the night before he went away. I promised to sing it for
him this night, and my friend, Leonard Murray--who has it set to some
good music--will help me. It is my business to build, it is my brother
Christopher’s business to sail, and to fight, but I say this--and it is
the truth--if America, my native land, needs my hands for fighting, the
love I bear for my _Vaderland_ will only make me fight the better for my
native land.” Then he looked at Leonard, and the two young, vibrant
voices, blended Christopher’s “Flag Song” with a stirring strain of
catching melody:
O Flag of the Netherlands, are not our hearts
All flagbearers sacred to thee?
To our song, and our shout, O banner fly out!
Fly out o’er the land and the sea!
Unfold thee, unfold thee, invincible flag,
Remember thy brave, younger years,
When men crying ‘Freedom!’ died underneath thee,
’Mid storming and clashing of spears.
Flag of Fidelity!
Piety, Courage!
Thy Blue, White, and Red
We salute!
Thou art blue as the skies, and red as the dawn,
Thou art white as the noonday light;
Fidelity gave thee her beautiful blue,
And Piety bound thee in white.
Then Faith and Fidelity went to the field
Where the blood of thy heroes was shed;
And there, where the sword was the breath of the Lord,
They gave thee thy ribbon of red.
Flag of Fidelity!
Piety! Courage!
Thy Blue, White, and Red
We salute!
The enthusiasm evoked by this _Vlaggelied_ was kept up in toast and
story and song until the big clock in the hall struck seven. Then the
judge and Colonel Rutgers rose; they were going to speak at a dinner
given by the officers of the Third New York State Artillery, and others
were going either to the theatre or to Scudder’s Museum, both of which
buildings were to be brilliantly illuminated. But a few of the guests
would willingly have prolonged the present pleasure, and old Samuel Van
Slyck said:
“Well, then, judge, too fast is your clock. There is yet one good
half-hour before seven.”
“No, no, Van Slyck,” answered the judge, “a Dutch clock goes always just
so; you cannot make it too fast.” And to this national joke the party
rose; they rose with a smile that ended in an involuntary sigh and the
little laughing stir with which human beings try to hide the breaking up
of a happiness.
Cloaked and hooded, the majority went northward up Broadway; but quite a
number went eastward to Nassau, Wall, and State streets. In this party
were Madame Bloommaert and Annette, their escorts being Peter, and
Leonard Murray. They were the last to leave, for they were in no great
hurry; so they took leisurely farewells, and some of the women drank a
cup of tea standing cloaked in the parlour. In this short postponement
Leonard found the moments he had been longing for. Never had Sappha been
so entrancing in his eyes, and the radiancy of her beauty had not
charmed him more than the graceful generosity with which she had
suffered herself to be eclipsed for the honour and pleasures of others.
And, oh, how sweet he made the cup of tea he brought her, with such
honeyed words of praise! And how proud and happy he was made by her
answer.
“If I was fair to you, dear Leonard, I have my perfect wish; for when
you are not here, then all the world is nothing.”
They were both happy and excited, and it is little wonder if they
betrayed to Annette’s sharp eyes more than they intended. She was
spending all her fascinations on her cousin Peter, but while making eyes
at cousin Peter was not oblivious of her cousin Sappha. And when the
festal hours were quite over and she was alone with her grandmother, she
could not avoid giving utterance to her suspicions:
“Grandmother,” she said, putting the tips of her fingers together and
resting her chin upon them, “I have an idea.”
“Well, then, what is it?”
“I think Sappha and Leonard Murray are not only in love with each
other--I think, also, they are engaged.”
“You talk more nonsense than usual. No one has said a word of that kind
to me. Of this family, I am the head, there could be no engagement
without my approval. Your uncle and aunt would have told me at
once--Sappha also. About engagements, what do you know? Lovers you
have, but making love and making a life-long engagement are different
things. Sappha is not engaged.”
“Then ’tis a thousand pities, for I am sure she is mortally in love with
Leonard.”
“And if he was mortally in love with Sappha, what wonder? More beautiful
every day, grows Sapphira Bloommaert.”
“That is because she is in love. ‘Love makes the lover fair,’” and she
began to hum the song.
“I have never seen love any change make in you. A new dress might,
but--”
“I have never been in love. A new dress is the height of my affection.
However, I go back to what I said--I am sure Sappha and Leonard are
engaged.”
“Was some one telling you this story?”
“No. I told the story to myself.”
“How did you make it up?”
“I kept my eyes open.”
“Well, what then?”
“I saw that they had that ‘air’ about their slightest intercourse that
mere experimental lovers never dare. I mean that sure look that married
people have. Watch them and you will see it.”
“Watch, I shall not. See, I shall not. As soon as there is any purpose
of marriage for Sapphira Bloommaert, I shall be told of it--told
immediately. If I was not, I should never forgive the slight,--never!
And your uncle and aunt know it. Can you find nothing pleasanter about
the dinner to talk of? It was a dinner to gladden Dutch hearts. I helped
your aunt arrange the courses, and I gave her many of my choice receipts
for the dishes. No one in New York has such fine Hollandish receipts as
I have, except, perhaps, old Peter Bogart, the biscuit maker.”
“I know, grandmother, I never pass his shop at Broadway and Cortlandt
Street without going in for some doughnuts. No one can make such good
ones; and how far back he looks in his smallclothes and long stockings,
his big hat, and knee buckles, and shoe buckles, and sleeve buckles, his
powdered hair and his long cue.”
“Yes, Peter Bogart and Mr. and Mrs. Skaats are among the few Dutch who
have never changed with changing customs. While moving with the city and
the times they have retained their picturesque dress and household life.
And in all New York no one is more respected; no one more interesting
and lovable than Mr. and Mrs. Skaats.”
“I never saw them!”
“I am sure you have not.”
“Well, then, who are they?”
“Mr. Skaats is custodian of the City Hall, and this delightful old
couple often entertain the judges, lawyers, and the councilmen at their
dinner table; on which is always found the Hollandish dishes we are so
rapidly forgetting. Your uncle occasionally dines with them, and would
do so more frequently if his own home was not so convenient. You must
ask him to take you to see these dear old Dutch people; or I dare say
Sappha knows them. Soon they will only be a pleasant memory.”
“I do not need to go and see the Skaats for a pleasant Dutch memory.
There is no finer Dutchwoman in the world than my grandmother, Madame
Jonaca Bloommaert.”
Madame was gratified at this compliment, and, perhaps, in order to
return the pleasure, or else for the sake of changing the subject, she
said: “Mr. St. Ange will be here in the morning--but I do not think it
is necessary to warm the best parlour.”
“No, no, grandmother. Our sitting-room is far more distinguished. The
best parlour is like a great many parlours; our sitting-room has a
character--a most respectable one. I could see that he was impressed by
it. I dare say he will soon know Sappha, and of course he will fall in
love with her, and then there will be some interest in watching how
Leonard Murray will like that.”
“Well, then, keep yourself clear; see, and hear, and say nothing; that
is wise.”
“But I like to meddle--a little bit. I wonder if Leonard and Sappha are
really engaged! Leonard might have come in and sat an hour with us; I
expected so much courtesy from him. But no! though I told him we were so
lonely in the evenings, he never offered to spend a little time with us.
I dare say he returned at once to the Bowling Green. I saw him say a
word or two to Sappha as he left, and she smiled and nodded, and I am
very sure he was asking her permission to return.”
“Such nonsense! He would have asked your aunt that question.”
“Oh, the question is nothing! any question meant the same thing. I have
no doubt at all, Leonard is at this moment with Sappha. They will be
pretending to help aunt Carlita, but then helping her will mean pleasing
themselves.”
But for once Annette’s sensibility, though so selfishly acute, was not
correct. Leonard did not return to the Bowling Green, and Sappha was
disappointed and hurt by his failure to do so. For an hour she sat with
her mother before the fire, expecting every moment to hear his
footsteps. And this expectation was so intense that she was frequently
certain of their approach--his light rapid tread, his way of mounting
the steps two at a time--both these sounds were repeated again and again
upon her sensitive ear drum, and yet Leonard came not. Alas, what
heart-watcher has not been tormented by these spectral promises? for the
ears have their phantoms as well as the eyes. At last she reluctantly
gave up hope, and as she lit her night candle she said in a tone of
affected cheerfulness:
“I suppose Leonard would stay an hour or two with grandmother and
Annette.”
“Why should you suppose such a thing? I am sure he never thought of
doing so. I dare say he went with Peter to the theatre.”
“Grandmother had a visitor to-day--a grandson of Mrs. Saint-Ange.”
“She told me so.”
“He is very handsome, Annette says.”
“Well, then, he will, perhaps, find work for idle hearts to do. Your
grandmother declares Annette shall marry a Dutchman. But when I was a
girl French nobles fleeing from Robespierre elbowed one another on
Broadway, and they carried off most of the rich and pretty Dutch
maidens. A Frenchman is a great temptation; your grandmother will have
to guard her determination, or she may be disappointed.”
“Good-night, dear mother. I will help you in the morning to put
everything straight.”
“Good-night, and good angels give you good dreams, dear one.”
And as Sappha put down her candle in the dim, lonely room, and hastened
her disrobing because of the cold, she could not help wondering where
all the enthusiasms of the early evening were gone to--the light, the
warmth, the good cheer, the good fellowship, the joy of song, the thrill
of love. They had been so vividly present two hours ago, and now they
were so vividly absent that the tears came unbidden to her eyes, and she
had an overpowering sense of discouragement and defeat. And the sting of
this inward depression was Leonard Murray. “He might have come back for
an hour! He might have come! and he did not.” Murmuring this sorrowful
complaint she went into the land of sleep. And in that world of the
soul she met her angel, and was so counselled and strengthened that she
awoke with a light heart and with song upon her lips--all her fret and
lurking jealousy turned into a frank confidence; all her doubts changed
into the happiest hopes. And as every one has, more or less, frequently
experienced this marvellous communion, this falling on sleep angry,
disappointed, dismayed, and awakening soothed, satisfied, encouraged,
there is no need to speculate concerning such a spiritual
transformation. Those who have the key to it require no tutor; those who
have not the key could not be made to understand.
Sappha simply and cheerfully accepted the change; she was even able to
see where she had been unreasonable in her expectations; her whole mood
was softened and more generous. She dressed herself and went down, rosy
with the cold, and her father found her standing before the blazing fire
warming her feet and hands. The windows were white with frost, and a
bugle sounded piercingly sweet in the cold, clear air; but the big room
was full of comfort and of the promise of a good plentiful meal.
They began to talk at once about the dinner party of the previous
evening, and Sappha said: “The best part of the whole affair was
grandmother. I think, father, that she looked about twenty years old,
when she was speaking. How radiant was her face! How sweet her voice!
How proud I am to be her granddaughter!”
And this acknowledgment so pleased the judge that he answered: “I shall
never forget her countenance as she lifted her eyes to the flags above
the mantlepiece; her glance took in both, with equal affection; the red,
white, and blue of the Netherlands, and the Star Spangled Banner which
hung by its side. And let me tell you, Sappha, I liked our Christopher’s
song, and also I liked the music Mr. Murray wrote for it. One was as
good as the other. Here comes mother, and the coffee, and how delicious
the meat and bread smell! Mother is always the bringer of good things.
Sit here, Sappha, it is warmer than your own place.”
During breakfast the gathering of the previous evening was more fully
discussed; and in speaking of madame and Annette Sapphira made mention
of Mr. St. Ange, who had visited them. Somewhat to their astonishment
the judge said he had heard of the young man through the Livingstons,
with whom he had had some business transactions. Mr. Edward Livingston,
of New Orleans, had supplied him with introductions to some of the best
New York families, and he thought it likely, from what he had been told,
that Annette’s description of his beauty and excessive gentility was not
more of an exaggeration than Annette’s usual statements.
“You have been told things about him, father. Then he has been in New
York more than two days?”
“He has been here about two weeks.”
“Oh! I understood from Annette that he had flown to grandmother’s
friendship at once. She spoke as if they were to have the introducing of
him to society in New York.”
“Well, then, they can do a great deal for Mr. St. Ange in that way. I
fancy he is rather popular already among the Livingston and Clinton set.
My mother can give him equally fine introductions among the Dutch
aristocracy. I believe him to be a gentleman, and I should think it
quite prudent to offer him any courtesy that comes in your way.”
After the judge had left home the two women continued the conversation.
Mrs. Bloommaert was certain St. Ange was at least of French parentage.
“His name is one of the best names among the nobility of France,” she
said. “And if he is truly a French gentleman, you will see of what
expression that word ‘gentleman’ is capable. But I wish not that you
should meet him through Annette--her airs will be insufferable. I think
it possible he may be at the Girauds’ ball to-morrow night. There you
would meet him quite naturally. It is strange Josette Giraud did not
name him to you when she called last Monday.”
“Josette loves my brother Peter. Peter has her whole heart. There would
not be room for the finest French gentleman in the world in it.”
“Josette is a good girl. I wish much that Peter would marry her. But no,
Peter thinks only of ships.”
“Oh, you don’t know, mother! Peter talks about ships, but not about
girls. All the same he thinks a deal about Josette Giraud.”
“Sometimes I fear Annette. I have seen her! She makes eyes at Peter,
she admires him, and lets him see it--and men are so easily captured.”
“But then, Annette does not want to capture Peter. She is only amusing
herself. She makes eyes at all good-looking young men. She cannot help
it.”
“Your grandmother ought not to allow her to do so.”
“Poor grandmother! She does not know it, or see it. If she did, she
could as easily prevent a bird from singing as keep Annette from looking
lovely things out of her beautiful eyes. And really, mother, she intends
no wrong. How can she help being so pretty and so clever?”
“Peter could have taken them home last night without the assistance of
Leonard Murray--and Leonard wanted to stay a while here, but Annette
asked him with one of those ‘lovely looks’ to walk with them, and
Leonard never once objected.”
“How could he?”
“And this morning she will have no recollection of either Peter or
Leonard. She will be busy with the conquest of this Mr. St. Ange.”
“If so, Mr. St. Ange will soon be her captive. I shall think no worse of
him for a ready submission. ‘Honour to the vanquished!’ was a favourite
device of the knights of the olden times.”
Mrs. Bloommaert was, however, a little out of her calculation. So was
Annette. Both had been sure St. Ange would avail himself of the earliest
possible hour in which a call could be politely possible; and Annette,
somewhat to her grandmother’s amusement, had dressed herself in the
fascinating little Dutch costume she had worn at a St. Nicholas
festival. She said she had done so because it was so warm and
comfortable for a cold morning; and she smoothed the quilted silk
petticoat and the cloth jacket down, and made little explanations about
them and the vest of white embroidery, which neither deceived madame nor
herself. Her fair hair was in two long braids, tied with blue ribbons;
her short petticoat revealed her small feet dressed in grey stockings
clocked with orange; and high-heeled shoes fastened with silver
latchets. She was picturesque and very pretty, and armed from head to
feet for conquest. But, alas! St. Ange came not. In fact he was
comfortably sleeping while she was watching; and it was not until the
middle of the afternoon he made the promised visit. He had been dining
at Mr. Grinnel’s the previous evening, and had afterwards gone to the
theatre with a large party. And he lamented with an almost womanly
plaintiveness the bitter cold, that, for him, spoiled every
entertainment. The theatre, he said, was at freezing point; and how the
ladies endured the temperature in their evening gowns was to him a
marvel. Then he looked round madame’s fine old room with its solid oak,
and massive silver, its curtained windows, thick carpet, plentiful
bearskin rugs, and huge blazing fire, and said with a happy sigh: “It
was the only room fit to live in that he had seen in New York. Handsome
rooms! oh, yes, very handsome rooms he had seen, but all cold, killing
cold!”
Madame reminded him that New York and Lousiana were in different
latitudes; and Annette found him the most cosey chair in the warmest
corner, and the general warmth and sympathy was soon effectual.
Complaint was changed for admiration, and as the day waned, and the
firelight made itself more and more impressive, his conversation lost
its business and social character, and became personal and reminiscent.
Madame asked him if he was born in New Orleans, and at the question his
eyes flashed like living furnaces filled with flame.
“But no,” he answered. “No, no! I was born in that island that God made
like Paradise, and negroes have made like hell. Near the town of Cayes I
was born, in a vast stone mansion standing on a terrace and shaded by
stately palms. Six terraces led from it to the ocean, and marble steps
led from one terrace to another. My father had left France very early in
the reign of Louis the Sixteenth, and I have heard that even at that
time he had a positive prescience of the horrors of the coming
revolution. However, without this incentive he would have made the
emigration; for he had fallen heir to immense hereditary estates in
Hayti, which had been in the possession of our family from the time of
Columbus. Here he cultivated the cane, introducing it himself from the
West Indies; and he also exported great quantities of mahogany, and of
that beautiful wood which is fragrant in its native forests as the
sweetest of roses. There were many slaves on the estate, who lived in a
little village of their own, about a mile away from the house. During
the awful insurrection of 1791 my father defended his mansion, and as he
had great influence with the blacks he was not seriously interfered
with; but he was never afterwards happy. He foresaw that the continual
fighting between the blacks and the mulattoes must finally drive all
white people from the island, and he prepared for this emergency by
sending to New Orleans at every opportunity all the money he could
spare. In 1803 the long years of continual horrors culminated, and the
United States having bought Louisiana, my father resolved to remove
there at once. A British frigate was in the harbour of Cayes at the
time, and arrangements were made with the captain for our immediate
removal. I was then of fourteen years, and I knew only too well the
demoniac character of these insurrections. This one also was likely to
be especially cruel, owing to the presence of French troops sent by
Napoleon to subjugate the blacks. Secretly I assisted my father to carry
to the ship the money, jewels, and papers we intended to take with us,
but ere this duty was quite accomplished we saw that there was no time
to lose. With anxious hearts we watched the ship sail northward, but
this movement was only a feint. We knew that about midnight she would
return to the appointed place for us.