happy. I must go and congratulate Annette.”
“Not to-day. They both went, early this morning, with the news, to
grandfather De Vries, and of course that is a day’s visit.”
“As he is the guardian of her estate, Annette would have to ask him for
money; for she will now want a great deal of it. I am glad she is going
to marry Achille; she has loved him ever since they met.”
“Annette loves Annette first and best of all. But she has plenty of
sense, and she knows that a girl of twenty-one has no chances to throw
away.”
“Annette looks about seventeen, mother, and she has more lovers than I
ever had.”
“That is because you allowed every one to see your preference for
Leonard Murray. Besides, what you say is not so. In spite of your
partiality, no girl in New York has more admirers than Sapphira
Bloommaert.”
“I prefer Leonard to all I ever had, or might have had.”
“Yes. I know. Very foolish, too! Your father does not like him; he will
never give a willing consent to your marriage with him--and girls ought
to marry before they are Annette’s age. In fact, I have thought her a
little old-maidish for a year past.”
“Oh, mother! Now you are joking----”
“Too affected--too full of pouts, and shrugs and pirouettes; things very
pretty when a girl is fifteen or sixteen, but quite old-maidish airs at
twenty-one.”
“Mother, Annette never looked more than seventeen, and she is not quite
twenty-one.”
“I think she looks every day of her age. She is more than two years
older than you; and two years, when a girl is in her teens, is a great
deal. Well, well, I thought you would have been married first.”
“If father and you were willing, I could be married at once. Leonard
would be glad; but----”
“Oh, yes! we all know how soon ‘but’ comes; _but_, you want your own
way; _but_, father wants his way; _but_----”
“Mother wants her way also.”
“No, no! Mother is willing for any way that works for others’
happiness--and Leonard is well enough, only things seem always to go
contrary for him and you.”
“Dear mother, somebody once said the course of true love never did run
smooth. Leonard loves me truly--for myself only. He is rich, and I am
not rich. He could marry any girl he desires in New York, but he loves
me. Is not that worth counting in his favour?”
“I never said different, Sappha.”
“Annette is very rich; Leonard could have married Annette.”
“I have no doubt of it. I should not wonder if Mr. St. Ange knows the
exact amount of her fortune. Frenchmen are not indifferent to a fortune
in their brides. I know that. It is a national custom to consider it.
St. Ange will have a difficult interview with old De Vries! I would like
very much to be present. De Vries will fight every dollar diverted from
Annette’s control. Oh, yes! he will fight them, cent by cent.”
“Mother, dear, I do not think Achille has given Annette’s money a
moment’s consideration. I do believe he loves her sincerely. He did not
wish to love her. He fought the feeling for a long time; both Annette
and I knew it, and Annette has often laughed at the way he held out. But
she always said, when we spoke of the subject, ‘He is not invincible,
some day he will surrender.’ I want to tell her how glad I am.”
“You cannot do so to-day. It is evident they intended a long visit, for
your grandmother says in a postscript, ‘Tell Sappha to come very early
in the morning. I want particularly to see her.’”
Here the conversation was interrupted by a violent ringing of the
judge’s bedroom bell; and the echo of a demanding voice whose tenor
could not be mistaken. Mrs. Bloommaert threw her mother-in-law’s letter
toward Sappha, and answered the summons at once; and Sappha lifted the
letter and carefully re-read it.
MY DEAR GERARDUS AND CARLITA:
I have to announce to you the engagement of Annette to my friend
Achille St. Ange. I am pleased with Annette’s choice, and her
marriage will probably take place on her next birthday, the seventh
day of June, on which day, as you know, she comes of age. I wish no
objections to be made. Annette has pleased herself, and done well
to herself, and what more can be expected?
Your affectionate mother,
JONACA BLOMMAERT.
P. S.--Tell Sappha I wish to see her very early in the morning. I
have a pleasant piece of news for her.
All through that dreary day this letter lay in Sappha’s work-basket. It
seemed almost to have life, and to talk to her; and when her mother came
to drink a cup of tea, she was glad to give her back the intimate,
insinuating bit of script. Mrs. Bloommaert held it a moment, and then
locked it in the judge’s desk. “I don’t want to see it again,” she said,
“but if I burn it, your father will be sure to consider it important
enough to keep. Can you imagine what news your grandmother has to tell
you?”
“No. There was considerable jesting about a secret yesterday, but it did
not strike me as important. It most likely relates in some way to
Annette’s marriage.”
“That is hardly possible; Annette did not say a word of her engagement
to you yesterday?”
“Oh, but grandmother would not permit her to speak until she herself had
announced it. Grandmother is particular about such things. Still, I do
not think they were engaged when I left there last night. Achille did
not look, or act, like an engaged man; and Annette would have told the
secret in twenty ways without uttering a word. I should certainly have
seen it. No, the offer was made after I left. Achille was in a very
sensitive mood. However, Annette will tell me everything to-morrow.”
In the morning she obeyed her grandmother’s request, and went to Nassau
Street very early. She told herself as she walked rapidly through the
frosty air that there would likely be some little change in Annette.
“There always is,” she mused; “as soon as a girl is engaged something
takes place--I wonder what it is.” The first symptom of this change met
Sappha at once. Annette did not run to meet her as usual, and though
quite as demonstrative, there was a little air of superiority, of
settlement, of some subtile accession, that was indefinable, and yet
both positive and practical. She was dressed with great care, and in
high spirits; and madame shared obviously in all her anticipations.
Sappha was indeed astonished at her grandmother’s appearance and excited
mood. Annette answered Sappha’s congratulations with a kiss and a smile
only; but madame expressed her pleasure frankly. She was already
planning Annette’s wedding and Annette’s home. Suddenly she recollected
herself, and said, “Well, then, have you remembered the secret I
promised to tell you this morning, Sappha?”
“Is not Annette’s good fortune the secret, grandmother?”
“No. Listen to me. I am going to the theatre to-night! You do not
believe me? I assure you it is true. And you, and Annette, and Achille
go with me. Achille has been making all preparations for my comfort; and
I am sure to have a very happy evening. But it would not be happy,
unless you and Annette shared it. Now you must return home, and send
here the dress you are going to wear; and then you will spend the day
with me. It is to be my gala day. I shall wear my velvet gown, and I am
as happy as a little girl. A great evening it will be, and I intend to
share all its gladness, and all its enthusiasms. And as Annette has been
so kind and clever as to add her happiness to mine, it is a spring-tide
of good luck. I consider myself a very fortunate woman.”
“Dear grandmother, my father is suffering very much. Will it be kind and
right for me to be at the theatre while he is in such distress?”
“Your father will drink Portugal wine, and then of course he suffers,
and makes your mother and every one else miserable. He has the gout;
well, you know what that means. I am sorry that he drinks wine, when he
ought to drink water; but what he invites he must entertain. I am sorry
also, that your mother cannot go with us; she has not drunk Portugal
wine, and yet she has the deprivation. Yes, for your mother I am sorry.
But as for stopping from the theatre to think about pre-arranged
suffering, I shall not do it--and there is no obligation on you to
deprive yourself of this night’s pleasure. If I can go with a good
conscience, you may safely go with me.”
She had talked herself into a tone of self-defence, and Sappha perceived
that it would be unwise to say more. Also, she was very eager for the
promised entertainment, and wonderfully delighted at the idea of her
grandmother’s pleasant vagary.
“Why, grandmother!” she answered, “it will be part of the performance to
see Madame Jonaca Bloommaert present. You will make quite a sensation,
and when I am an old woman I shall talk about the night I went with
grandmother to the Park Theatre.”
Then she drew the lovely girl to her side and kissed her, and after a
little discussion about the dress to be worn, urged her to go home and
procure it. Also, she sent by Sappha certain messages to her son
Gerardus, which Mrs. Bloommaert, upon consideration, positively refused
to deliver.
“Your father is paying dearly for drinking a glass or two of wine,” she
answered, “and it is none of God’s way to worry, as well as punish. And
I will not tell him over again what he has been told so often; there is
nothing so aggravating. What are you going to wear?”
“Mother dear, ought I to go? There is father--and there is Leonard----”
“I forgot! Leonard called here, while you were away.”
“Oh, dear! What did you say to him, mother?”
“I could not see him. I was just giving your father his breakfast. He
slept late this morning, and----”
“Then what message did you send?”
“I sent him word you were out, and told him it was impossible to accept
his kind offer. Of course I made the refusal in as agreeable words as
possible.”
“Did you tell him I had gone to Nassau Street?”
“I forget--I suppose I did. It was Kouba who opened the door. Kouba
would be sure to tell him.”
Then Sappha went to her room, packed the clothing she desired, and sent
it to Nassau Street by Kouba. On being questioned, he could not
remember whether he had told Mr. Murray to go to Nassau Street or
not--thought maybe he had. “Master Murray mighty dissatisfied like,” he
added, and then he looked curiously in Sappha’s face.
“You are to take this parcel to Nassau Street, Kouba; and when you come
back here you will find a letter for Mr. Murray on the piano; you will
then go and find Mr. Murray, and give him the letter.”
The writing of this letter was a difficult task to Sappha. She felt the
cruelty of Leonard’s position very much--his offer to her family had
been early and most generous; yet it was impossible for her father and
mother to accept it, and equally impossible for her to accept it alone.
The disappointment to his own plans Leonard would doubtless take as
cheerfully as possible; but what would he say to her going with Achille?
For he might not see Madame Bloommaert’s claim on her granddaughter in
the light of an affectionate command and compliance; and then he would
be jealous again--and then--and then? Sappha felt bewildered, until she
recollected Annette’s engagement. That circumstance would certainly
define Achille’s position and prevent any ill-will. “And I told him in
my letter about it, so then it is all right.” Thus she reasoned herself
into a satisfied mood; and when she returned to her grandmother’s and
cousin’s company she could not help catching the joyous expectancy of
the situation.
And very soon Achille came in, and it was prettily amusing to watch the
behaviour of the newly betrothed. It seemed as if they now found all the
world a delightful mystery, a secret between themselves only. Such
reliance, such hope, such expectation, had suddenly sprung up between
them that there was a constant necessity for little confidences and
unshared understandings. However, nothing could be more beautiful than
the manner in which Achille treated madame. He consulted her about all
the evening’s arrangements, and gave her an affection and respect, which
she returned with that charming kindness that is the innocent coquetry
of old age.
It was finally agreed that Achille should come for them soon after five
o’clock. The usual hour for opening the theatre was six, but Achille
said the crowd on the streets was already very embarrassing and
difficult to manage.
All afternoon there was a growing sense of something unusual and
paramountly exciting--that undistinguishable murmur born of human
struggle and exulting gladness. The three women dressed to it, and were
all ready for their refreshing cup of tea at half-past four o’clock.
Both girls had tacitly agreed that madame was to be the heroine of the
occasion. Both assisted in her toilet, and escorted her downstairs like
maids of honour. And certainly it would have been hard to find a woman
of more distinguished appearance. Her gown of black velvet, though not
in the mode, was in _her_ mode, and suited her to perfection. White
satin and fine lace made the stomacher, and her white hair was shaded
by lace and by a little velvet hood turned back with white satin. Her
face had a pretty pink flush, and she was very quiet during the last
half hour of waiting.
“There were no theatres when I was a girl,” she said softly. “Would you
believe, my dears, that I have never been in a theatre, never seen a
play? I wonder me, what your grandfather Bloommaert would say?”
“He would be glad to have you go, of course,” answered Sappha. “Why,
grandmother, you ought to go to-night. It is not the play you are going
to see, it is something grander.”
She smiled, and Annette said, “I hear a carriage coming. Grandmother,
how do I look?”
“You are both pretty enough. It is a great satisfaction to see you
dressed alike.”
Then Achille entered, and hurried them a little. He said the immense
crowd would render their progress very slow; but no one cared much for
the delay. The crowd was orderly and full of enthusiasm. Scudder’s
Museum, all public places, and private houses were brilliantly
illuminated; there was a sound of music everywhere, and the crowd itself
continually burst into irrepressible patriotic song.
It was nearly six when they succeeded in reaching the theatre, and
madame’s heart thrilled very much as a child’s would have done when she
entered what seemed to her a fairy palace. For the whole front of the
theatre was a brilliant transparency representing the engagement of the
frigates _United States_ and _Macedonian_. The Star Spangled Banner met
their eyes on all sides, and to its inspiring music they entered the box
Achille had provided. Most of the boxes were already filled to their
utmost capacity; and in the gallery there was not space enough left for
the foot of a little child. But the pit was empty, and to it every eye
was turned. Almost immediately the tumultuously joyful cheering outside
announced some important arrival. The orchestra struck up, with amazing
dash and spirit, _Yankee Doodle_, and three hearty cheers answered the
music as four hundred sailors from the war frigates entered. The crowd
inside rose to greet them; cheer followed cheer, until women and men
both sobbed with emotion. Then the gunner with his speaking trumpet took
his stand in the centre of the pit, in order to command silence if
necessary, and the boatswain with his silver call stood next him, to
second his commands. And four hundred sailors in their blue jackets,
scarlet vests, and glazed hats, all alive with patriotism and excited
with victory, made a remarkable audience. They had just come from a
dinner given them by the city at the City Hotel, and were exceedingly
jovial, and perhaps the big gunner and the boatswain standing up in
their midst were not amiss as guides and masters of ceremonies, for when
Decatur shortly afterwards entered the box provided for him they rose at
the sight of their commodore as one man, and gave twelve such cheers as
only four hundred proud and happy sailors could give; every man
standing on tiptoe and flourishing his glazed hat in that saucy,
dauntless way that is peculiar to sailors. And whoever heard those
repeated huzzas, with the silver whistle of the boatswain shrilling
through them, heard music of humanity that they never in life forgot.
Madame wept silently and unconsciously, Sappha sat with gleaming eyes
still and white with emotion, Annette clapped her hands and leaned on
Achille for support. The very atmosphere of the house was tremulous and
electric, and men and women said and did things of which they were quite
unconscious. And wild as the excitement was, it continued during the
whole performance; the play, the scenes, the transparencies and dances
being chosen and arranged for the purpose of calling out the naval
spirit of the audience and of doing homage to the American sailor, who
was deservedly at that hour the hope of the country and the idol of the
people.
When the wonderful evening was over the sailors left the theatre in
perfect order, and preceded by their own band of music marched to their
landing at New Slip; and while this exit was transpiring, so many people
visited Madame Bloommaert that she may be said to have held a ten
minutes’ royal reception in her box. And though the beautiful old woman
with her beaming face and rich dark drapery was in herself a picture
worth looking at, her charm was greatly increased by the lovely girls
who stood on either side of her--both of them dressed alike in pale blue
camblet gowns and spencers of the then rare chinchilla fur, so soft, so
delicately grey, so inconstestably becoming.
“I have had four hours of perfect happiness,” said madame, as she lay at
last among her pillows, with her hands clasped upon her breast, “of
perfect happiness! Think of that, children! Four hours of perfect
happiness!”
Annette said eagerly, “I too, grandmother, I too have been perfectly
happy.” But Sappha did not speak, she bent her head and kissed madame,
and fussed a little about her night posset, and her pillows, and the
rush light, and so managed to evade any notice of a silence which might
have been construed adversely. For indeed Sappha had not been perfectly
happy. She had rejoiced with those that rejoiced, but in her heart there
was a sense of failure. Leonard had not sought her out, and she had been
unable to gain any recognition from him. For a short time he was in the
Clarks’ box, and she watched for some sign that he was aware of her
presence; but the sign did not come, and long before the entertainment
was over he had disappeared.
“He is jealous again,” she thought with a sigh. And really it appeared
as if, in this crisis, he had some cause for offence. His offer to
accompany Sappha and her family had been refused, and Sappha was with
Achille. He had not even been asked to join Achille’s party, and as for
the judge’s gout--every one knew he was subject to the complaint. He
thought Mrs. Bloommaert might have left him for three or four hours; he
told himself that she would have done so if Sappha had asked her with
sufficient persuasion. It angered him to see the girl he loved and whose
troth he held, in the company of Achille St. Ange. For he was not yet
aware of Achille’s engagement to Annette, the letter which Sappha sent
by Kouba not having reached him. For Kouba had thought far more of
enjoying the excitement of the streets than of finding Mr. Murray, and
the only effort he made in that direction was to finally leave the
letter at the City Hotel, where he was told Mr. Murray was dining.
So this tremulous fear of having wounded her lover was dropped into
Sappha’s cup of pleasure, and clouded and dimmed its perfection. Its
very uncertainty was fretsome; there was nothing tangible to put aside;
it affected her as a drop of ink infects a glass of pure water--it
cannot be definitely pointed out, but it has spoiled the water. The only
certain feeling was a regret, which lay like a slant shadow over her
heart and life. She was glad when the morning came. She wished to go
home, and be alone a little. Annette’s selfish joy, though effusively
good-tempered, was not pleasant, and it struck Sappha in that hour that
there are times when good breeding is better than good temper.
On arriving at the Bowling Green she interviewed Kouba at once. But
Kouba had his tale ready. He assured Sappha that he had found Mr. Murray
eating his dinner at the City Hotel, and that a white man had promised
to send the letter right away to him, “And I saw him do it,” he added,
with a reckless disregard for facts. If this was the case, then Leonard
knew of the engagement between Annette and Achille, and she could not
imagine why her lover had so obviously ignored her.
But for a time it was necessary to put this question out of her mind.
She had to describe the previous evening’s proceedings to her father and
mother, and then it was dinner time--and Leonard had not come. She was
utterly miserable, and under the plea of a headache went to her room. It
was impossible for her to talk any longer of those things that did not
concern her. She wanted to think of her lover, and if possible discover
what course was the best to take.
“Oh, if father had not been ill just at this time!” she sighed, “we
might have been all so happy together last night! Why did father’s
attack come on the very day both mother and I wanted him to be well? Oh,
how unfortunate!” And Sappha’s lament was quite true--the unfortunate
thing usually happens at the unfortunate time, for a malign fate never
does things by half. So the girl wept, and told herself that she was
sorry she had gone to the theatre at all, and that whenever she tried to
be kind to others and to forget herself she was always sorry. She
declared Leonard had a right to be offended. He had been badly treated,
and his desire to have their engagement made public was a wise and
honourable one for both of them. Perhaps her arguments were all wrong,
but then the human relations are built on feeling, not on reason or
knowledge. And feeling is not an exact science; like all spiritual
qualities, it has the vagueness of greatness about it.
However, youth is happy in this respect--it can weep. Sorrow finds an
outlet by the eyes; when we grow older it sinks inward and drowns the
heart. So Sappha wept her grief away, and was sitting in a kind of
dismal, hopeless stillness when Leonard came.
They met and embraced speechlessly, and it was evident that Leonard also
had been suffering. But in little confidences and mutual explanations
all suspicions and fears passed away, and their love was nourished and
cherished by the tears with which they watered it. And in this interview
they came to the conclusion that their engagement must be publicly
ratified, and Leonard promised to see Judge Bloommaert as soon as the
latter was able to discuss the subject.
“And you will not vex my father about Mr. Burr? Dear Leonard, you will
not put Mr. Burr before me?”
“I will put no one on earth before you, my darling! No one!”
“Remember, Leonard, that you have had nothing but worries since you
visited the man. But wherever or whenever you meet Aaron Burr, I would
count it an unlucky day.”
And the questionable words sunk deeper into Leonard’s consciousness than
far more reasonable arguments would have done. He answered them with
kisses only, but as he walked up the Bowling Green he said at
intervals, as if answering his thoughts: “Perhaps--maybe--who can tell?
She is best of all, God forever bless her!”
As for Sappha, she went swiftly upstairs to her room. Her heart was as
light as it had been heavy. She sat down, she arose, she rubbed her
palms with pleasure, she sighed, she smiled, and her eyes were full of
love’s own light as she whispered softly, “Leonard! Leonard! Leonard!
Oh, my dear one!”
Thus does grief favour all who bear the gift of tears.
CHAPTER SEVEN
_The Incident of Marriage_
The interview so important to Leonard’s love affairs, and so eagerly
desired by him, did not come as he had planned it should come. He had
intended to speak to the judge when Mrs. Bloommaert was present and
Sappha not far away, for he counted very largely on their personal
influence for a favourable answer to his request. But one morning as he
was passing the house the judge, who was sitting by the window, saw him;
and by a friendly, familiar gesture, invited him to an interview.