Part 11

“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.