Part 13

They walked together talking only of Mr. Burr for more than an hour; then Sappha said “she was cold and must go into the house.” She was not so much cold as weary. We are always weary when we do not understand, and Sappha could not understand why Mr. Burr should interfere in her affairs. At the door Leonard spoke to her about the theatre on Friday night, and she promised to give her father and mother his invitation. “It is too late to detain you longer, my beloved,” he said; “but I will call early in the morning for the answer. I hope they will accept my offer. It will make me very proud and happy.”

Sappha was sure that her mother would do so. “My father is always uncertain,” she said, “but I think he will go if I ask him.”

In the morning, however, there was no question of naming the subject. The judge had come home late the previous night, and even then was suffering all the premonitory symptoms of an attack of gout. Sappha was accustomed to these evil periods, and quite aware that all Leonard’s plans were useless. For no one but Mrs. Bloommaert and the two negro men who nursed the judge were likely to see him; or, if they were wise, to want to see him; and Sappha was compelled to add disappointment to the already restless dissatisfaction which had somehow invaded the love which Leonard really bore her.

The morning interview was, moreover, very hurried. Leonard was going to court to hear Mr. Burr argue a certain case, and though he did not tell Sappha this, she felt that Mr. Burr was the cause of her lover’s unusual haste. Before he knew this objectionable person he had never worried about time; now he was constantly consulting his watch. She felt as if their love had been mingled with some element that robbed it of its immortal beauty and bound it to the slavery of hours and minutes; nay, she could not have defined her sense of loss, even thus far, accurately; she was only wistfully conscious of a change that was not a gain.

Leonard came early in the morning, and was bitterly disappointed to find that his little plan was absolutely abortive. The judge was suffering much, and the subject had not even been named to him. Mrs. Bloommaert, indeed, rather fretfully interrupted Sappha in the midst of her delivery of Leonard’s invitation. “The theatre!” she ejaculated. “If you were in your father’s room for ten minutes you would not have the courage to name the place. I am sorry, of course, but theatre-going is out of the question. Leonard does seem so unfortunate!”

“Do not be unjust, mother; don’t you think it is father that is unfortunate? And then his misfortune makes you suffer, and I also; for I did want to go to the theatre on Friday night so much. I suppose Annette will be disappointed also, for of course she cannot go with Achille alone. They were, no doubt, calculating on your presence.”

“It cannot be helped, Sappha. Your father must not be left; my place is with him. I suppose Mrs. Clark will be going. Leonard and you can join her party.”

But when this proposition was made to Leonard he refused it without reservation. He was certain that the Clark party was already complete, and he showed a touch of stubbornness in temper that pained and astonished Sappha. If he could not have his pleasure exactly as he wished it, there was no longer any pleasure in it; and he said with an air of intense chagrin:

“I shall be the only young man of my circle who will not be there with the girl he loves and the family into which he hopes to be admitted. I feel it very much.” And with these words he went away.

All morning Sappha sat in a kind of listless grief. She was in a mesh of circumstances against whose evil influence she was powerless. Nothing could avail. The morning was damp and cold and full of melancholy, the house strangely still; she could not sew, she could not read, she could only suffer. And at eighteen years of age suffering is so acute, it seems to youth’s dreams of happiness such a wrong; and the reasonable indifference of age has, to its impatience, the very spirit of cruelty.

About noon Mrs. Bloommaert came into the room. She had a letter in her hand, and there was a singular expression of discomposure both on her countenance and in the fretful way in which she held the missive in her outstretched hand.

“Sappha,” she said, “here comes news indeed! Your grandmother has written to tell us that last night Achille St. Ange asked Annette to marry him. And of course Annette accepted the offer,” commented Annette’s aunt. “Your grandmother seems delighted with the match.”

“They will suit each other very well, mother. I am sure they will be 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.