Part 23

It was on her father’s arm the lovely Sapphira entered. Every one instinctively felt her approach; conversation ceased, laughter was hushed, all were at pleased attention when they heard the light footsteps and the gentle rustling of the silk wedding gown. A kind of radiance came in with her; came from her tall bright beauty, from the glow in her eyes, from her fresh, sweet face, from the warm lights about her shining hair, and the scintillating glory of the gems around her white neck. In her hand she held a perfect white rose, and either of design or by some fortunate accident she stood exactly on the spot where she had parted from Leonard with the rejected, scattered rose between them. But true love knows not rejection; from the ends of the earth it returns to its own; it cannot retain a memory of offence for ever and ever; it not only gives, but forgives.

Three hours after the ceremony the Bloommaert household were on their way to England, and Peter had charge of the house on the Bowling Green. “We shall be back in the fall of the year,” the judge said to his son, “for I have much to attend to in New York this coming winter.”

The judge kept his promise, but Leonard and Sappha did not return with him. Sappha had accompanied her husband to Scotland, and after his mission to the Highlands had been accomplished they lingered a while in Edinburgh. Here they met an old acquaintance who was going to Holland and Belgium, and they went with him to these countries. Then, the wander-fever being still upon Leonard, they travelled southward to France and Italy, returning to England by the usual tourist route through Switzerland. And, as at that day the facilities for travel were small, and its difficulties and hindrances for travel many and perplexing, it was more than a year before they again reached London, and turned their faces westward and homeward.

Homeward! The word tasted sweet in Sappha’s mouth. She said it over and over, and the first sight of the open arms of the low-lying American shore brought happy tears to her eyes. The Bowling Green at last! After so many strange lands, after so many wonderful days in the old, old world, here was the fresh young world, with all its splendid hopes again! The flag they loved, the homes they knew, the people who belonged to them—these things were best of all; dearest of all were the contentful sum of all their future hopes and desires. The great cities, the fairest spots in Europe, were now only as picture books and memories; but Home, Sweet Home was on Bowling Green.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Afterward

If any of my readers believe marriage to be the completion and consummation of individual life, they will be willing to consider the story of Sapphira finished when she married Leonard Murray. But if they rather believe it to be the open portal to a grander and wider life, they will find the few following pages a sufficient index to a future which they can unfold and amplify from their own knowledge and experience. So that I need only say that when Sapphira Murray entered the beautiful home which her father built for her on the south side of the Bowling Green she could have had no dream of its future destiny. She dwelt there in sweet contentment for many years, and died in its lofty front chamber just before the war of 1860. Leonard Murray did not long survive his beloved wife. He wandered disconsolately around the Green, or strolled slowly in the Battery Park for a few months, and was then laid beside her in that aristocratic little graveyard on Second Street, which, though surrounded by the tumult of the city, keeps to this day its flowery seclusion.

With the removal of these well-known figures the Bowling Green suffered a distinct social loss; and when Stephen Whitney, who was a near neighbour of the Murrays, died in 1861, the prestige of its wealth departed, for Mr. Whitney was the richest man in New York, with the exception of some members of the Astor family. From that date the Bowling Green began to assume a business character, and the homes of the Bloommaerts and Murrays no longer sheltered their descendants. Lawrence Bloommaert, the son of Captain Christopher Bloommaert, remained a while in the house of his grandfather, Judge Gerardus Bloommaert, but his family were all girls, and they married and scattered through the Madison Square district, and even still further north. Leonard and Sapphira’s three sons had fine homes in the Murray Hill locality, and their only daughter Sapphira, who had married the eldest son of Peter Bloommaert, was in 189—living in a spacious mansion on the Riverside Drive. She was born in 1827, and therefore at the period of these reminiscences nearing seventy years of age. But she still kept the dew of her youth, and her children and children’s children filled her splendid home with the living splendour of youth and beauty and affection.

She was sitting alone one night in the fall of 189—. She looked a little weary, her figure drooped slightly, her hands lay as motionless as if they were asleep; but there was a flush of excitement on her cheeks, and her eyes were full of dreams. She was seeing with them, but seeing nothing within their physical horizon. They had backward vision at this hour, and she smiled faintly at the scenes they flashed before her memory.

In a short time the door was noiselessly opened, and a much younger woman entered. She came toward the elder one with a slow, easy grace, and taking her passive hands between her own said: “Mother, you have wearied yourself. I fear you have been foolish to-day.”

“No, no, Carlita,” was the quick response. “I have had a happy day. I am glad I took my desire. I did not expect you. It is a Faust night; why are you not at the opera?”

“The opera will not miss me. Gerard has gone with the little Van Sant girl; and of course Agatha Van Sant will be present. I do not suppose the conductor would lift his baton until he saw Mrs. Agatha Van Sant enter her box; then, he would nod his satisfaction, and say with a lordly air, ‘Let the opera commence.’ I shall see enough of opera this winter; and I want so much to hear about your expedition. What time did you start?”

“About eleven o’clock. Gerard wanted to go with me, but I wished to be alone. There was really no danger. Dalby knows the city, and the horses obey his word or touch. I went to my old home. I was in every room of it.”

“It must be much changed.”

“In accidentals, yes, very much changed; but the large sunny rooms and the grand seaward outlook are the same. I went first to the nursery on the top story, and, Carlita, I could replace every chair and table. I could see James and Leonard and Auguste busy with their books and playthings; and there was one back window that had a little embrasure, which was very dear and familiar to me. In that nook I read ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ and the ‘Exiles of Siberia,’ and best of all, ‘The Arabian Nights.’ I sat down there and tried to recall the long, long, happy days in which it was my favourite retreat. I stood and looked downward over the balustrade, and fancied I saw again my beautiful mother, clothed in white and sparkling with gems, going out with father to some dinner or ball; and I remembered how I used to thus watch for her coming, and call her; and how she would stand still and lift her face full of love and smiles to bid me a ‘good-night.’ Once at a little ceremony of this kind I dropped her a white rose, and she put it in her bosom, and my father laughed and called me ‘darling’ and I went to bed that night more happy than I can tell you. I stayed some time in the nursery, and longer in my mother’s room. It had only sweet memories, for I never went into it without meeting a smile, no, not even on that last day of her beautiful life, when she called us all to her side for the long farewell. She died, as I have often told you, singing. She had sung, more or less, all her life long; and she went away faintly and sweetly singing,

“‘Hark, they whisper, angels say, Sister spirit, come away;’

and after a pause, still more softly—

“‘Tell me, my soul, can this be death?’

See, Carlita, I brought some sprays from the honeysuckle she planted on the seaward porch. Though November, it is in bloom. My father put flowers from this same vine in her hands after she was dead. It was a lovely, happy memory, Carlita. In a little sitting-room I found a window pane on which Annette St. Ange and my mother had written their names, enclosing them in a very perfect circle, and I brought the glass away with me. I could not bear to think that some stranger, in the destruction of the room, might perhaps tread the names beneath his feet.”

“Grandmother must have loved Mrs. St. Ange?”

“They were close friends, especially after the disappearance of Mr. St. Agne.”

“Mother, what was the meaning of that disappearance—death?”

“People generally spoke of it as death; but my father and mother knew better; and when Annette had passed beyond mortal care and suffering something occurred—I think the marriage of her granddaughter in Paris—that led my mother to tell me the truth. To-day, Carlita, I saw Annette St. Ange again, though not as I recollected her in life.”

“What do you mean, mother?”

“I saw her picture; the one taken soon after her marriage, and in her marriage garments—I was at the Loan Exhibition.”

“Oh, mother, why did you not wait for me to go with you?”

“Well, my dear, the bit of glass in my hand made me remember the exhibit; and as I had heard Gerard say the Van Sants were going to send some portraits, I suddenly resolved to visit the rooms and see if Annette St. Ange’s was among them. And there I saw it—very conspicuously placed also; a wonderfully lovely presentment of a lovely girl.”

“But was it like her?”

“It was not like the Mrs. St. Ange I remember. The portrait represented a fairylike beauty, dainty, exquisite, with the bluest eyes and the palest golden hair imaginable; an air of indefinable coquetry and grace; and a slight, girlish figure clothed in white from head to feet. But the Mrs. St. Ange that used to visit my mother was very different. She was always in black, her eyes were not pretty or expressive, her hair had lost all its glow, and her slight figure became round and heavy. She was also sad-looking. I do not recollect her smiling. She seemed full of care. Still there were points of resemblance, when you looked for them; and you may be sure the bright, lovely girl did not become the sad, hard-looking woman without many and long-continued trials.”

“She ought not to have married a foreigner. They do not understand American women; and then one or the other goes to the wall.”

“In the St. Ange case, it was Annette. Her husband was soft as velvet and hard as iron. In some way she lost her grip of the situation, and when men go one step beyond their right they go too far. He never said an impolite word to her; also, he ceased saying a loving word. She became afraid of him, nervous, diffident, and suspicious. He had only to remark in the blandest way that she was losing her fine manners, and she lost them. In his presence she did herself no justice. He looked critically at her, slightly shrugged his shoulders, and she was as awkward as he considered her. In five years no one would have known the once sarcastic, clever, authoritative Annette de Vries. She had subsided. She was forgotten; and she hardly knew how to frame a complaint of the way in which this condition had been brought about.

“Fortunately, she found some comfort in her house and her children, but Mr. St. Ange took no apparent interest in either. It was a lonely pleasure. He was disappointed because the three girls were not three boys. He spent very little time in his home, preferring one or other of the clubs of which he was a member.”

“I think he was simply—a brute.”

“Not quite that—he did not intend to be brutal. He had taken a distaste to Annette. My mother told me that in the days of their first acquaintance he had periods of this distaste; a kind of repulsion which was overcome by the fascination of her great physical beauty. But the physical beauty faded, lost its charm, and you can see, Carlita, what would then happen. But he was never rude or actively unkind; and in public he treated her with marked attention and respect. If Annette had complained, no one would have believed her; even her grandmother was sure in her heart that Annette had managed badly a very good man.”

“Poor Annette, I am sorry for her.”

“My mother was sorry for her. She understood. My mother, in matters of the heart, had a sort of clairvoyant perception; and she never would listen to any one who blamed Annette. This kind of life between Mr. St. Ange and his wife went on for nearly ten years; and then one day he reached home in a strangely excited condition. He said he had received a request, that was in reality a command, to return to France and look after the affairs of his family. He was going at once. He expected to be away at least a year. Annette made no objection, nor did she ask any questions about the business. She was quite aware that all inquiries would be answered only as it suited her husband’s views. However, before he went he made over to her in the most absolute way every dollar he possessed, both in property and money. He said the ocean voyage was a life risk; that he had always been unfortunate at sea, and that he wished his wife to have no difficulty, in case of his death, in realising his fortune. He himself took nothing away but some changes of clothing. ‘If he lived to reach Paris he would have no difficulty concerning money,’ he said, ‘and if not—the thing he had done was well done and only an act of justice.’ And every one thought his conduct beautifully thoughtful and unselfish. He went away on a night tide, when no one was aware of his intention, and again people said, ‘How considerate!’ and Annette affected to agree with them.”

“Well, at least, she was clever. I should have done the same, mother. Did she really grieve at his departure?”

“No. She turned all her attention to her money affairs. One of her great troubles had been Achille’s refusal to interfere in the management of her fortune; or even to permit her to make any change in its disposition, however profitable such change would be. ‘Your most sensible grandfather De Vries invested your money, and neither you nor I can improve upon his financial foresight,’ was the usual answer. But times had changed, and Annette knew well that her investments needed change of the most radical kind. She made them without a day’s delay. She called to her assistance the son of the man who had been her grandfather’s lawyer, and with his advice speedily nearly doubled her income. All that Achille had left her was closely secured in real estate, and she found in this business such pleasant satisfaction, that she regained much of her beauty and old-time spirit.”

“She had thrown off the incubus, mother.”

“Yes, and regained her self-appreciation. Her lawyer praised her financial insight, her friends praised her appearance, she took the reins of household management again, and held them with such strict method and discipline that her servants, from being the most idle and insolent in the city, became the most respectful and obedient.”

“Did she ever talk of her husband?”

“She never spoke of him until the year which Mr. St. Ange had named as the period of his absence was more than over. No word of any kind had come to her, and she said to my father, that she expected none. Achille had told her he would be too busy to write letters, and that she must accept ‘no news’ to be ‘good news.’ But he had given her the address in Paris where she might write to him, if there occurred anything worth writing about. My father advised her to write and inquire as to the health and welfare of Mr. St. Ange, and the date of his probable return. Annette did so, and after the lapse of four months received a short note from the lawyer she had addressed, saying: ‘The ship in which Monsieur St. Ange sailed from New York was lost in the Bay of Biscay, and all on board perished. It is possible, but not likely, that Monsieur St. Ange was picked up by some vessel, whose course would take her round the Cape to India or China, and thus prevent all intelligence reaching us for a year or two. Madame is advised to consider this probability, but not to place much hope upon it.’”

Carlita laughed scornfully, and her mother continued: “Annette took the information with a blank calmness; no one could tell what her feelings were. She continued her busy life for three more years, and then one day a fashionable gentleman, called Van Tienhoven, visited her. In the most guarded and respectful manner he told her that he had just returned from France; that while there he had, through the influence of powerful friends, visited the Court of Versailles several times, and that on two occasions he had seen there, in close attendance upon the King, Mr. St. Ange, or, he added, if not Mr. St. Ange, the most perfect duplicate of that gentleman that can be imagined. Annette preserved her composure until his confidence was closed, then gave it an unqualified denial. She told Van Tienhoven that St. Ange’s lawyer had assured her of the death of her husband; and begged him not to give publicity to the suspicion that he still lived. She showed him how painful it must be to her, how unfortunate for her daughters, and she emphatically declared her own belief in Mr. St. Ange’s death. He gave her his word of honour to observe strict silence on the subject; and the Van Tienhovens are all gentlemen. I have no doubt the promise of secrecy was kept.

“But Annette became restless and unhappy, and both her grandmother and my father advised her to go to Paris. She went, taking with her Jonaca, the eldest of her daughters, who had always been the favourite of St. Ange. In less than four months she was in New York again. She came back without Jonaca, and dressed in the most pronounced widow’s costume. She said unequivocally that her husband was dead, and that she had left Jonaca at a fine Parisian school; her father’s friends having strongly urged her to do so, promising to care well for the girl. No one had any right to doubt Annette’s statement, but mother told me that from the first there was a doubt. It was undefined and unspoken, but it permeated society; and Annette soon felt it. One day after some particularly disagreeable incident, she came to my mother and told her what had occurred; and mother said, ‘Dear, what does it matter? You know that Achille is dead, do you not?’ And she answered in a sullen, angry way, ‘Sapphira, he is as dead to me as if he lay at the bottom of the Bay of Biscay. There is no truer widow in all America than Annette St. Ange. And then she pulled the widow’s veil from her bonnet, and the widow’s cap from her head, and flung them with passionate scorn far from her. What confidence followed this act mother never fully told me; but I gathered from what she said that she had been compelled to give up Jonaca, who had been placed in a convent for proper education, and that the interview with her husband had been extremely painful. But he kissed her hand at the close of the negotiations, and he sent servants in magnificent livery to attend to her luggage and passports and all the other formalities of travel; and they waited on her as if she was a princess, until they saw her safely on board the American-bound vessel.