Part 10

To this last exclamation Sappha closed the door. She walked slowly downstairs, she lingered, she seemed unable to come to any decision. But in the midst of her uncertainty she listened to her heart, and what her heart said to her was this: “It can never be wrong to be kind.” So strengthened, and even counselled, by this suggestion, she went back to her lover. He was walking about the room in a fever of self-torment, and as the door opened he turned inquiringly. And it was the loveliest of Sapphas he saw. She met him in all her charms; her eyes had a sunny radiance, her mouth was all smiles, she looked as if there was not a care in the wide world—a healing, lovesome woman, wonderfully sweet and comforting.

“Dearest one,” she said softly, “sit here beside me. Let me have your hand, Leonard, and listen to me. My mother says this is the very worst time in all the year to speak to my father. He is so full of public affairs, and you know, just now, they ought to come before any private ones. Ought they not, dear?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“Well, there can be no ‘but’ for a few days. Christmas is Christ’s feast—we cannot presume to put ourselves before Christmas; and then come all the honours, and feasts, and public rejoicings for our dear country. You would not put yourself, nor even Sappha, before America, her honour and freedom? And so I think, with mother, we must wait until after the New Year before we say a word about ourselves. Dear, a few months, a few weeks ago, you were so happy with my assurance only. Is it less sweet now than then?”

And as she spoke more and more tenderly, aiding her words with loving glances and the light pressure of her little hand, softer thoughts flowed in, and the enchanter, love, usurped the place of every evil passion. Leonard finally promised to be happy, and to let others be happy; and he kissed this agreement on her lips. Alas!

“Man, only, clogs with care his happiness, And while he should enjoy his part of bliss, With thoughts of what might be, destroys what is.” DRYDEN.

And when Sappha had watched and smiled him out of sight she turned in with a sigh and a sudden depression of spirit. She had won Leonard to her wish and way, but anger is always self-immolation, and for a time at least Leonard had fallen in her esteem, for she was compelled to disapprove of much that he had said; and the more we judge, the less we love.

The whole affair seemed trifling to Mrs. Bloommaert; it was an annoyance in the midst of events of far more importance, and had to be got out of the way—that was all. But to Sappha it was different. She had forgiven Leonard, but unhappy is the lover whom a woman forgives; and Sappha was herself quite conscious that some virtue had gone out of her life. It was not a little event to Sappha, for there are no little events with the heart.

Fortunately Annette and St. Ange came in, and Sappha was compelled to meet them on the level of their joyous temper. They had finished decorating madame’s house, and their arms were full of box and feathery hemlock and the blooms of many-coloured everlasting flowers and great bunches of the vermilion berries of the darling pyracantha shrub. They were tingling with the Christmas joy, and their ringing laughter, their jokes and snatches of song, their quips and mock reproofs of their own mirth, filled the house with the electric atmosphere of Merry Christmas. Negroes were chattering among them, raising ladders, and running messages, and the tapping of the little hammers, and the cries of admiration as the room grew to a fairy bower, was far better than the music of many instruments—it was the music of the heart.

“We ought to have had holly,” said St. Ange. “There is always holly in Christmas decorations.”

“The pyracantha berries are just as pretty,” answered Mrs. Bloommaert, “and the pyracantha is a rapid grower, and can be cut with impunity—even with profit to the bush; but to cut holly! that is rather a cruel business. It is almost as bad as flinging the Christmas tree into the streets when it has done its whole duty.”

“But, aunt Carlita, what else can be done? It is too big to keep, and—”

“I will tell you. In Germany, the home of the Christmas tree, they give it house room until Shrove Tuesday, then it is formally burned.”

“Well,” said Sapphira, “we are not going to have a Christmas tree this year; my father likes far better the Yule Klap.”

“What an outlandish name!” exclaimed St. Ange.

“Truly so, but then, such a delightful custom!” replied Annette. “To-morrow night you will have to do your part in the Yule Klap; I hope you are prepared.”

“But then, I know not.”

“My aunt will tell you all about it.” And Mrs. Bloommaert said: “Come now, it is easy enough. The judge will open the Christmas room, and then every one will throw their gifts into the room, crying ‘Yule Klap’ in a disguised voice. The gifts may be rich or poor, but they must be wrapped in a great number of coverings, and each cover be addressed to a different person, but the person whose name is on the last cover gets the gift. The gifts are to be strictly anonymous. So then no thanks are to be given, and there can be no envious feelings awakened.”

“That is charming,” cried St. Ange. Then he was in a hurry to leave, but Mrs. Bloommaert insisted that he should stay and drink a glass of hot negus ere he went into the cold air. While the negro boy was bringing in a tray full of Christmas dainties, and Sappha spicing the Portugal wine, they finished the dressing of the room; and then sat down round the fire to refresh themselves.

And very soon St. Ange began to talk of certain Christmas feasts he had spent in Europe—in Madrid, at the Christmas turkey fair, amid glorious sunshine, the flower girls selling camillas and violets; everywhere colour, beauty, music, barbarism, and dirt. At Rome in the antique fish market, always brilliantly lighted with large torches on Christmas Eve. “For I assure you,” he said, “the sumptuous fish supper of that night is beyond anything that can be conceived of here.”—at Naples, where Christmas is kept with confectionery, and the Toledo is a feast of sugar and sweets.

“Are then the Neapolitans so fond of confectionery?” asked Annette. “They must be very children,” she added.

“They are children among sweets,” he answered. “A Neapolitan noble told me that the king was ever fearing revolution; ‘but,’ he added, ‘if he will only present every Neapolitan with a box of sweets a revolution will be impossible.’”

“I do not think a box of sweets to every American would have prevented our Revolution,” said Sappha.

Every one laughed heartily at the idea, and then she pictured Washington and Putnam, and her grandfather Bloommaert’s reception of these peace offerings. And the scene was so funnily enacted that no one could help laughing heartily at it. Yet in the very climax of the hilarious chorus Sappha had a heavy heart; her mirth was only from the lips outward. However, it seemed only too real to Leonard, who entered suddenly while the peal of laughter was at its height. And he was so totally unexpected that the moment’s sudden silence which followed was the most natural consequence; especially as it ended in a rush of inquiries and exclamations.

“So glad to see you!”

“Come and sit down, and have a glass of hot negus.”

“What good fortune sent you?”

“Is there any strange news?” And then Mrs. Bloommaert’s rather stiff question: “Is anything wrong, Leonard?”

Leonard turned to her at once. “No, indeed,” he answered. “I met the judge at the City Hall and he asked me to bring you this letter. I think he expects to be detained. He was just going on to an important committee. If there is any answer, I will carry it, if you wish me to do so.”

And as Mrs. Bloommaert read the letter Sappha brought him some spiced wine, but he would not take it. He said “he was going back to complete some decorations, whose position required a very clear head and steady foot.” But he knew in his heart that it was no fear of danger made him refuse the proffered cup of good-will. It was jealousy that whispered to him: “The cup was not mingled for you. There was no thought of you in it. Others were expected and prepared for, and you were not even told.” Under the influence of such thoughts he was constrained and quite unlike himself, and an effectual destroyer of happiness. An uncomfortable silence, broken by bungling attempts to restore the natural mirth he had disturbed, were not happy efforts. He made himself an intruder, and then blamed every one else for the position he had taken voluntarily, through his own misconception. Sappha was painfully aware of the constraint, and she wished for once that Annette would open her generally ready stream of badinage. But Annette was busy advising, in a somewhat private detail, St. Ange concerning his part of the game of Yule Klap; and St. Ange, having received her instructions while Leonard was waiting, rose when Leonard did, and proposed to walk part of the way with him.

“You will call this evening, will you not?” asked Sappha timidly, as they stood by a little table full of mysterious packages.

“It will be impossible,” he answered. “Every part of the decorations are in my charge, and I have a great deal to attend to.”

“To-morrow is Christmas Eve. You will be here for the Yule Klap?”

“If I am wanted!”

“Oh, Leonard! If you are wanted! If you are not present I shall not care for anything, or any one else.”

“Then I will come, dearest.” This conversation had been held, almost in whispers, as Sappha was supposed to be showing Leonard some of the Yule Klap offerings she was preparing. Then the young men went away together, but the ocean between them could not really have set them more apart. St. Ange made several attempts to open a conversation on Yule Klap. He wanted Leonard’s advice about the gifts most suitable; but Leonard professed both ignorance and indifference concerning a game so childish; and at Vaarick Street St. Ange, having failed completely to evoke anything like friendly intercourse, bid him good-morning. He was worried over his friend’s evident displeasure; and over his own failure to either account for or dispel it. He went westward to Greenwich Street, and having made many purchases in the most fashionable stores, rather wearily returned to his rooms at the City Hotel. He was depressed and had a premonition of trouble.

After this little cloud the Christmas festivities went on with unalloyed pleasure. Madame and Annette were to stay at the Bowling Green house until Saturday, and when the judge saw his mother’s delight in her anticipated visit to the theatre on Christmas night he had no heart to say one opposing word. But Sappha was not now so eager. She felt sure that in Leonard’s present temper he would not like her to be the guest of St. Ange, and she resolved to forego the pleasure. “I shall have a little headache in the morning, and it will grow worse towards night, and I shall beg to be left at home that I may sleep it away. I do not think it will be wrong,” she mused. “There is not room in the box St. Ange has taken but for six; and if there was room, I am sure Leonard would not accept the invitation to join us. Well, then, it is better to make an excuse than to make trouble. Why did not Leonard rent a box? He might have thought of it just as well as St. Ange. I wish I knew what it is best, what it is right, to do.”

To such troubled thoughts she fell asleep, and when she awoke in the morning the weather had settled the matter for her. It was bitterly cold, and a furious snowstorm was blocking up the pathways and making a visit to the theatre beyond a safe or pleasant probability. Madame sadly admitted the condition, but the day went happily forward; and about two o’clock Leonard and St. Ange and Peter arrived, and the judge opened the Christmas room, and then there was two hours of pure mirth—of surprise without end; of beautiful gifts whose donors were to speculate about; half-guesses sent into conscious faces; questions asked with beaming eyes; all the delightful uncertainties which love could make, and love alone unravel. The Christmas dinner followed, and after it a dance, which madame, with Peter for her partner, opened. Every one joined in it, and the merriest of evenings was thus inaugurated. So nobody regretted the theatre, not even madame, for she had been privately informed by St. Ange that the box was reserved for the great naval performance on the seventh of January; and that it would be one far more worth seeing, one never to be forgotten. And madame kept this bit of anticipatory pleasure as a little secret, and was as gay as a child over it.

Leonard also was in his most charming mood, and Sappha was divinely happy; her beauty was enchanting, and her manner so mild and sweet that she diffused on all hands a sense of exquisite peace and felicity. For Leonard had whispered to her such words of contrition and devotion as erased totally and forever the memory of his unworthy temper and suspicions. And after that confession there could be only sorrow for his fault, and delight in pardoning and forgetting it.

All throughout the following week he preserved this sunny mood. He was undoubtedly very busy, for the naval dinner was to be given on the twenty-ninth of December, and he was the director of the committee of young men who were turning the great dining room of the City Hotel into a marine palace. It was his taste which colonnaded it with the masts of ships wreathed with laurel and all the national flags of the world—except that of Great Britain. It was Leonard who devised the greensward, in the midst of which was a real lake, and floating on it a miniature United States war frigate.

It was Leonard, also, who hung behind the dais on which Mayor Clinton, Decatur, Hall, and the officers of the navy were to sit, the mainsail of a ship thirty-three feet by sixteen, on which the American eagle was painted, holding in his beak a scroll bearing these significant words: “Our children are the property of our country.” There were many other transparencies to attend to; besides which, every table was to bear a miniature warship with American colours displayed. And to the five hundred gentlemen of New York, who sat down to the dinner served in that room, these were no childish symbols. They were the palpable, visible signs of a patriotism that meant freedom or death, and nothing less.

In the midst of all the business connected with such preparations, in a time when the things wanted were not always procurable, and had to be supplied by the things that could be obtained, Leonard—whose heart was hot in his work of patriotism—was naturally very busy and very much occupied with the work on hand. Yet he found time sufficient to see Sappha often enough to convince her he had not fallen away from the promise he had made her—“to harbour no unworthy suspicions of any one who loved him.”

At length New Year’s Eve arrived. More than three hundred of New York’s loveliest women had been for weeks preparing for it, and all were eager for the pleasure it promised them.

The Bloommaert party, consisting of the judge, Mrs. Bloommaert, Sappha, 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.”