and Annette, were early arrivals; and Leonard, who was one of the
directors, met them at the door. And he looked so noble, and so
handsome, and his manner was so fine and gracious, that even Judge
Bloommaert was impressed by his personality, and returned his greeting
with unusual warmth. But then, as Leonard reflected, any man who failed
in politeness, or even in cordiality, in the presence of three such
lovely women as Sappha, Annette, and Mrs. Bloommaert, would surely be
something less than human.
Mrs. Bloommaert’s beauty was yet in its ripe perfection. She was as the
full blown rose that has not yet dropped a single leaf. She wore a gown
of white satin covered with a netting of gold thread; and there was a
string of pearls round her throat, and a large comb in form the braids
and bows of her glossy black hair. She carried in her hand a little fan
of exquisite workmanship, and used it with a grace that no woman in the
room, old or young, could imitate.
Sappha’s gown was of white satin of so rich a quality that any trimming
on it would have been vulgar and superfluous. Her sandals also were of
white satin; and in her beautiful, brown hair there was one white rose;
and round her slender throat the necklace of pearls which had come to
her among the gifts of the _Yule Klap_. Annette was dressed in a slip of
pale blue satin, covered with white gauze of the most transparent
quality; a very mist of white over a little cloud of pale blue. Her
sandals were blue, and she wore a necklace of turquoise stones cut in
the shape of stars and united by a tiny ornament of frosted silver. Her
hair hung free, and was loosely curled and confined by a simple band of
blue ribbon.
And if Sappha, with her “eyes grey-lit in shadowing hair above,” seemed
to wear Love’s very vesture with just that touch of pride that made men
wonder and revere, Annette was like a Love from Greuze’s dainty brush--a
laughing, dancing, teasing, mocking fairy. Achille was constantly
hovering around her, and this evident admiration and attention Sappha
was careful to point out to Leonard.
The dance begun at nine o’clock, and at eleven supper was served in a
room fitted up like the great cabin of a ship of the line; but after
supper dancing was resumed, and continued until nearly two o’clock in
the morning. Then reluctantly the happy crowd went to their homes to
rest, for it was then New Year’s Day, always a busy, fatiguing
anniversary--a day which every one felt it a duty to consecrate to
friendship and hospitality.
Indeed, in Judge Bloommaert’s household there was barely time for a
little sleep before the parlours were crowded with callers; and all of
them brought but one topic of conversation--the arrival of the captive
British war vessel, the _Macedonian_. For her conqueror had brought her
as far as Hell Gate the day previous, in order that she might arrive on
the first of January, and be presented to New York as a “New Year’s
Gift.” And, as if good fortune was pleased with this honour to her
favourite city, the very breeze that was needed sprang up, and at the
very moment it was needed; and amid the shouting crowds that lined the
banks of the East River, the captive vessel was taken to the Brooklyn
Navy Yard.
“I had the heart-ache for her,” said Leonard. “She carried herself so
proudly. I bethought me of how she had borne the living fury of the
elements, and the living fury of fiery battle, and I lifted my hat a
moment to the wounded ship in her humiliation, just as I would have done
to any great soldier or sailor, if I saw them marched between shouting
enemies, manacled and helpless.” And at these words the judge regarded
him silently; and there was a quivering fire in Sappha’s eyes as she
said softly: “You felt as the brave always feel in the presence of a
fallen enemy. You remember the motto of the old Plantagenet
knights--‘Honour to the vanquished!’”
“I remember. You told me that once before. Do you know your brother
Peter would not look at her?”
“That was strange,” said Mrs. Bloommaert. “What was the matter with
Peter?”
“Peter always looks on a ship as a woman, and he cannot bear to see her
in distress.”
“It is a strange feeling, that, between ships and ship men,” said Dr.
Smith. “Sailors all give them consciousness and sympathy, and it is a
common thing to hear them say of any craft, ‘she behaves well.’ Captain
Tim Barnard of the privateer _General Armstrong_, when chasing an enemy,
talks to his ship, as an Arabian to his horse; urges her, entreats her
to put forth all her speed, makes her promises of additional guns, or a
new flag, and, what is more, he firmly believes she understands and
obeys him.”
“Well,” answered the judge, “every one I know connected with shipping
speaks as commonly and as naturally of the average life of a ship as
they do of the average life of a sailor.”
“Once,” said Achille, “when I was in England I watched from the cliff a
ship in danger. She flashed out signals of distress, and her minute guns
sounded like the cries of some living creature, and as I looked and
listened I saw men running to some boats that were lying half-alive on
their stocks, and in a moment they were in the raving, raging sea. Boats
and men seemed alike eager and pitiful. And the gallant ship! She was
like a mother in extremity--if she must go, she entreated that her sons
might be saved.”
“Were they?”
“Yes, all of them; but the next morning her figure-head, looking seaward
wistfully, was lying on the beach; and her broken rudder beside it. They
were sadder than spoken words. No one saw the ship die. She went down to
her grave alone--but I think she was glad of that.”
“Come, come then,” said Peter, who had entered during this conversation,
“we need not go so far afield for splendid facts. Let us remember the
nineteenth of last August, when Captain Isaac Hull wounded to death the
fine British man-of-war _Guerrière_. It was seen at once that her case
was hopeless, and the _Constitution_ watched by her all night, and
removed not only all her men, but also all their private possessions. On
the morning of the twentieth she was ready for her grave. A slow match
was applied to her magazine, and the _Constitution_ bore away. At a safe
distance she hove to, and the officers and men of both ships stood
watching. The guns which had been left shotted soon began to go off.
They were the death knells of the dying man-of-war. Presently the flames
reached the magazine, a mass of wreckage flew skyward. The _Guerrière_
was no more. But William Storey, who was present, told me every man
stood bare-headed as she sank, and that her officers wept, while some of
her men blubbered like children.”
“Thank you, Peter,” said the judge. “It is a good thing to hear that
Hull was so noble to his prisoners.”
“As for that,” continued Peter, “there wasn’t a touch of ill-will on
either side, after the fight was over. Storey said the prisoners and
captors sat around the fok’sle together, telling yarns, exchanging
tobacco and many little courtesies. Hull is too brave a man to fear
brave men. Some captains might have handcuffed the crew, not so Hull;
and, indeed, every American sailor on the _Constitution_ felt a manly
unwillingness to handcuff enemies who had fought so bravely.”
“Sappha,” said the judge, “I have heard Mr. Murray singing with you at
intervals this afternoon and evening a verse or two that you were
setting to a wonderful bit of music. Try it again, my dear.”
“It is _The March of the Men of Moray_, father. Mr. Murray wrote two or
three verses to it about the _Macedonia_. Come, Leonard,” and she struck
a few ringing chords and looked inspiration into his bending face. Then
out rang the little ballad to the marching music of his clan:
What will they say in England,
When the story there is told,
Of Commodore Decatur,
And his sailor men so bold?
They’ll say it was a gallant fight,
And fairly lost and won;
So honour to the sailor men,
By whom the deed was done!
What will they say in England?
They’ll say with grateful lip,
Now glory to Almighty God,
No Frenchman took the ship!
No Frenchman shot her colours down!
The doomed ship had this grace--
To take her death blow from the hands
Of men of the English race!
And all good honest men and true
Will pray for war to cease;
And merchant ships go to-and-fro
On messages of peace.
And men-of-war sail on the land,
And soldiers plough the sea,
Ere brothers fight, who ought to dwell
In love and unity.
“Thank you, Mr. Murray,” said the judge. “’Tis a stirring melody!”
“’Tis the march of my forefather’s clan, sir.”
“And you have said for America, and for England, what they deserve. We
both love fair play; and I am sure both nations know how to take, either
a victory or a defeat, like men, and gentlemen. God make honourable
peace between us, and that right early!”
To this pious wish the company remaining, departed; but after Leonard
had made his long, sweet adieu, Sappha heard her father gently tapping
on the table the time of “_The March of the Men of Moray_,” as in
pleasant thoughtfulness he hummed to its music,
“They’ll say it was a gallant fight,
And fairly lost and won,
So honour to the sailor men,
By whom the deed was done!”
CHAPTER SIX
_The Miracle of Love_
There had been something more than courtesy in Judge Bloommaert’s
attitude to Leonard that New Year’s night, and Sappha was exceedingly
happy to notice it. If Leonard would only be careful and conciliating,
such favour might be won as would make an acknowledgment of their
engagement pleasantly possible. As it was, Sappha was light-hearted and
hopeful, for surely now Leonard would wait the natural development of
events.
And for a few days the subject was not named; Sappha was busy helping
her mother to put in order the numerous household goods and affairs that
had been disarranged by the licence of the holidays, and Leonard also
had some unusual business, the nature of which he promised to reveal
before the week was over. New Year’s Day fell that year on a Friday, and
on the Tuesday following it Sappha went to visit her grandmother and
cousin. It was a sunshiny, winter day, and the old house on Nassau
Street had such an antique, handsome homelikeness, as made far finer
dwellings look common and vulgar in comparison with it. Madame sat by
the blazing fire writing letters; Annette was marking new towels with
the Bloommaert initials; but when she saw Sappha at the gate she put
away her work and ran to meet her.
Then there was no more writing, and no more sampler letters; the three
women sat down to “talk things over.” And when the _Yule Klap_ presents
and the New Year’s feasts had been discussed, they drifted very
naturally to the guests and to their dressing and conversation. Madame
enjoyed it all, and the morning passed quickly and pleasantly away.
“Grandmother has a secret, Sappha, and I cannot coax it from her,” said
Annette. Then she laid her hand upon madame’s, and added: “Now that
Sappha is here, do tell us both, grandmother.”
“Until Thursday morning I will not tell you,” she answered. “Do you wish
me to break my promise? That is not my way.”
“You promised Achille, eh, grandmother? Oh, I see that I have guessed
correctly--you are smiling, grandmother, and you cannot help it--so
then, it is something Achille is going to do! Very well, Achille shall
tell me. I shall insist upon it.”
They joked, and wondered about “grandmother’s secret,” and ineffectually
begged to share it, until dinner was over; then madame went to her room,
and the girls dropped the subject at once--they had more interesting
matter to discuss.
“Have you seen Leonard since the New Year?” asked Annette. “How
delightfully he conducted himself! How charmingly he sang and talked! I
do believe that uncle Gerardus was quite impressed by his intelligence.
He is very handsome also--does he still make love to you, Sappha?”
“He would not be in the fashion if he omitted the fine words all the
young men say nowadays. I might as well ask you if Achille flatters the
fair Annette in the same silly way?”
“Do you think it silly? I think it is heavenly sweet, and quite proper.
Yes, the dear Achille continually invents new names for me. The ‘fair
Annette’ is out of date. I am now his ‘Heart’s Desire!’ I am afraid he
is distractingly in love with me.”
“But why do you fear it? Are you not in love with the dear Achille?”
“I fear it, because I am sure that I am life or death to him; and I am
not quite sure that I am in love with any one--it is such a
responsibility. Are you in love with Leonard?”
“What is the use of being in love, when you cannot marry for nearly
three years. I have promised father and mother not to engage myself to
any one until after the war.”
“How foolish! Such silly promises ought to be broken--are made to be
broken. Does Leonard want to marry you?”
“I wish you would ask him. In so many ways Leonard is inscrutable. He
has some business on hand now that he is keeping a secret. I think
secrets are in the air. Pray, when will you marry Achille? Or has he not
asked you yet?”
“My dear Sappha, he is the most sensitive of mortals. He says love
should not be talked about--it makes it common; takes off all the bloom
and glory from Cupid’s wings; just as handling the butterfly makes it
crushed and shabby. I think he is right. Achille does not need to talk,
he says such things with his soft black eyes that perhaps he had better
not say with his beautiful red lips. However, his lips are not as
prudent as they might be.”
“Oh, Annette! Do you really mean that he has kissed you?--and yet you
are not engaged.”
“Suppose it is so! I do not feel a whit the worse for it. I am going to
be Mrs. St. Ange. I have made up my mind on that subject.”
“But Achille?”
“That is settled. I intend to marry him. Some people will say I am
making a poor match--because, you know, I shall have a great deal of
property and money; but I do not intend to listen to any one’s opinion.”
“But Achille has not really asked you to be his wife?”
“That is nothing. He will do so the very hour I am ready to accept him.
I put the question off until after the holidays, because one can never
tell what might happen at New Year’s.”
“Were you expecting anything to happen?--anything unforeseen, Annette?”
“Well, I thought young Washington Irving might come home at Christmas,
and I wanted to see him again. I felt sure you knew that I have been
considering him.”
“He loved Matilda Hoffman.”
“I know that, of course. But after she--withdrew, I felt that it might
be my office to comfort him. He looked so charming, and so sorrowful.”
“I have not seen him lately,” said Sappha.
“He went to Philadelphia about some magazine he is editing; but I heard
that he is coming back to board with Mrs. Ryckman. His great friend,
Harry Brevoort, told Achille so. However, I have given Mr. Irving quite
up. I don’t think I could take any interest in the Analectic Magazine;
though I am sure I cannot imagine what an Analectic Magazine is like.
But then, as Achille says, I have no occasion to know such things. I
rather think it is something dreadful--it might be a doctor’s magazine.
I believe Mr. Irving thought of being a doctor.”
“I certainly believe you would find Achille more agreeable to you than
Mr. Irving.”
“Achille is so wonderfully polite. You cannot make him forget his fine
manners--and grandmother is very fond of him. She does not like Mr.
Irving. She thinks his ‘History of New York,’ a piece of great
impertinence--and I wish to please grandmother, for several reasons.”
In such conversation they passed the afternoon, until madame came back
to them, Sappha always skilfully parrying Annette’s point blank
questions, by others just as direct; and in this way easily leading her
cousin to personal subjects of far superior interest to her--that is,
her own lovers and love affairs. Just before madame’s tea hour Leonard
came. He was in the highest possible spirits, and carried himself as if
something very important had happened to him; as, indeed, it had.
He said he had been at the Bowling Green, and found no one at home. Mrs.
Bloommaert had gone to drink a cup of tea with Mrs. Jane Renwick, and
hear her talk of “poor Robert Burns,” who had sung of her as _The
Blue-Eyed Lassie_.
“Well, then, now we shall find out if Mr. Washington Irving is in New
York, or is likely to be here; for he certainly could not be in the city
a day without going to see Jane Renwick,” said Annette.
“What does Sapphira Bloommaert or Annette de Vries want with Mr.
Washington Irving?” asked madame. “Has he not turned the respectable
Dutch of New York into ridicule--made people to laugh at their homely
ways. Such laughter is not good for them, nor yet for us.”
“We were just wondering about him, grandmother--you know he is a
possibility now.”
“Annette De Vries!”
“For American girls, I mean. I was telling Sappha that little Mary
Sanford is quite willing to comfort the widowed lover.”
“Such silly chatter is this! Leonard, have you news more sensible?”
“I think I have, madame. In the first place, there is to be such a play
at the Park Theatre on Thursday night as never has been seen, nor is
ever likely to be seen again. I went to the Bowling Green to ask Mrs.
Bloommaert and Sappha to come to my box, and now I come here to tell
you. There is room there also for you madame, and for Annette. I hope
you will do me the great honour to accept my invitation;” and he rose
and bowed to madame first, and then with a charming exaggeration to
Sappha and Annette.
Madame put off answering for herself and Annette, but Sappha accepted
the invitation with delight; and in the conversation incident to this
proposal, and the asides springing readily from it, the daylight faded
and the good supper was brought in and thoroughly enjoyed. Then the
table was cleared, and the hearth swept, and the candles placed on the
high chimney piece, where their light did not weary madame’s eyes; and
the little company drew their chairs within the comfort line of the
blazing fire.
Annette was a little quieter than seemed natural, but then Achille had
not called. The day was slipping away without his customary devotion,
and Sappha was present to notice this remissness; it was, therefore,
very annoying, for Annette felt its contradiction after her little
fanfaronade about her power over the impassioned, sensitive Achille St.
Ange.
Suddenly Leonard seemed to take a resolve, or else the news he had to
tell urged him beyond restraint. He looked at Sappha with a demanding
interest, and then said: “Madame, I remember that you once asserted all
young men ought to have either a business or a profession, if only to
keep them out of mischief. I have this day concluded to begin the study
of the law. I hope I may thus be kept out of mischief.”
“Come, now, you have done a wise thing, Leonard; I am glad of what you
say.”
“I feel quite satisfied, madame, that I have done right--done what my
dear father would approve, if he were alive to direct me. And yet, at
last, I acted without taking much thought or advice on the subject.”
“That also may be a wise thing, Leonard. Young men sometimes take more
thought than is good for purpose--they think and think till they cannot
act.”
“As I say, the resolve came suddenly. I had a large bill to pay two days
ago for business connected with my real estate; and as I looked at it I
thought, Why not do this business myself? Half an hour afterwards Mr.
King said this same thing to me; and I went home and considered the
subject. Then I called on several good business men and asked them who
was the best real estate lawyer in the city.”
“Real estate!” cried madame, “then you are not going to study criminal
law?”
“No, no! I want to know all about the laws regulating the buying and
selling of property, leasing, mortgaging, renting, and so on--what
tenants ought to do, and what landlords ought to do--don’t you see,
madame?” He said “madame,” but he looked at Sappha, who was watching him
with an expression more speculative than approving.
“Yes,” answered madame, “I see. And your idea is a very prudent one.
Listen, if a good teacher on this subject you want, go and article
yourself to Seth Vanderlyn. What he does not know about real estate is
not worth knowing.”
“Oh, I have done better than Seth Vanderlyn! I am going to read with
Aaron Burr! What do you think of that? The most learned, the most
delightful, the most eminent of all living lawyers. I am really so
excited at my good fortune I know not what to say. Mr. King and Mr. Read
and several other men of affairs and experience told me I had selected a
lawyer who had no compeer in land and property business. In such respect
they all said I had done well, and for other matters, I was the best
judge. I suppose they referred to Mr. Burr’s duelling episode.”
Sappha’s face expressed only dismay and distress. She had neither a word
nor a smile for Leonard’s great news. He turned to Annette. She was lost
in the contemplation of her feet--which were small and beautifully shod,
and she silently turned them in and out, as if their perfect fit was the
present question of importance. Madame’s brows were drawn together, and
there was a look of uncertainty on her face. In a moment of time Leonard
saw all these different signs of disapproval and dislike. His face
flushed with anger, and he continued in a tone of offence:
“I thought you would all rejoice with me. I thought you would at least
commend the step I had taken--I----”
“It is no good step for you,” answered madame in a voice of regret. “If
with bad men you go you are counted one with them; if with doomed men
you go, you catch misfortune from them.”
“I do not understand what you mean, madame.”
“Leonard,” interrupted Sappha, “you have not asked my father’s opinion?
If you had, you would never have taken this foolish step.”
“‘Foolish step?’ Why, Sappha, every one to whom I have named my purpose
thinks me fortunate. And if you only knew Mr. Burr you would confess it
an enormous privilege to be under his advice and tuition. He is the most
fascinating of men.”
“Fascinating! Yes, that is right,” said madame. “His charm I know well.
But listen to me, Leonard Murray, this is a fascination to be thrown
off--it is no good for you. All of your friends, do you wish to lose?”
“Yes, if they are so foolish as to leave me because, wanting
instruction, I have chosen the best of masters.”
“Well, then, say also, the most unpopular man in New York.”
“Indeed, madame, you are mistaken,” answered Leonard warmly. “I do not
know a more popular man than Mr. Burr in New York to-day. No lawyer has
a larger practice, and during the few hours I passed in his office the
last two days I saw there the most honourable and influential of our
citizens. Every one treated him with respect, and it is a fact that the
first day his return to New York was known five hundred gentlemen called
on him before he slept that night. It is also a fact that within twelve
days after he nailed up his sign in Nassau Street he received two
thousand dollars in cash fees. His business is now large and lucrative,
and no one but those stupid Tory Federalists are against him.”
“My father is a stupid Tory Federalist, Leonard,” said Sappha coldly.
“Oh, how unfortunate I am! I do nothing but make mistakes to-night. Poor
Mr. Burr! A majority of our great men have fought duels; is Mr. Burr to
be the scapegoat of all American duellists? De Witt Clinton, though his
enemy, admits that no man ever received provocation so frequent, so
irritating, so injurious, and so untruthful, as Burr received from
Alexander Hamilton. My dear friends, I assure you that Burr has more
defenders than his victim.”
“Very likely,” replied Sappha with a remarkable show of temper, “a great
many people prefer a living dog to a dead lion.”
“I thought I was sure of your sympathy, Sappha,” answered Leonard, and
as he uttered these words Annette rose up hastily, clapped her hands
together, and said: “Thank goodness, I hear Achille St. Ange’s
footsteps! Now we shall have some sensible conversation.” She ran to
the door and set it wide open, and Achille saw the comforting
firelight, and the beautiful girl standing in its glow, waiting to
welcome him. It gave him a sense of content, almost of home and love. He
came in holding her hand; his black fur cloak throwing into remarkable
significance the pallor of his haughty, handsome face, lighted by eyes
of intense blackness and brilliancy.