Part 3

No, it was “the doing of that young fool, Leonard Murray.” The judge had returned to his home that momentous Saturday in a passionate temper of hatred to England and her old tyrannies. He had been irritated by the lukewarmness and doleful prophecies of the majority of his friends and associates, and by the fact that every newspaper in the city was opposed to the war. And then, while his wife and daughter were stimulating his feverish mood of disapproval, he had suddenly been called to the front to stand by the opinions of others and to declare his own. He felt that somehow he had been tricked by circumstances, and his hand forced; and that young Leonard Murray was to blame for the whole affair. He had never liked the lad’s father, and having been twice obliged to decide important cases against him, the elder Murray had shown his resentment in ways that had been both irritating and injurious. They had also been distinctly opposed in politics, and, moreover, in their youth had been rivals for the love of the pretty Carlita Duprey. Now, the son of this disagreeable man had apparently taken up his father’s power to be at least unfavourable to him. He worked himself into a still, hot passion against the youth, and determined then and there to have nothing more to do with him.

Not that he intended to recede from any word he had uttered. He told himself instantly that he had only declared the truth, and that he would stand for, and by, every letter of his speech. But he wished that he had made that speech voluntarily, in some regularly called meeting, and not in response to a request voiced by young Leonard Murray. That was the sore point of the hurt, so that he hardly touched it, even in thought, but reverted at once to his speech, which struck him now as grandiloquent, turgid, and bombastic—not the kind of speech he would have made in the City Hall or at the Common Council by any means, and a tingling sense of chagrin answered this conviction. It was thoughts similar to these which surged with passionate strength through his mind as he stood on the following Wednesday afternoon on the steps of the City Hall. There had just been a public meeting in the park, called to approve the war measure, but it had been very scantily attended; and as the noisy crowd scattered, mainly up and down Broadway, he hardly knew whether he was glad or sorry for the failure. The uproarious conduct of the youth of the city offended him, and as a general thing the men of experience, of solid wealth and political power, had not answered the call for this meeting. For it was a Democratic call, and New York at that day was the very stronghold of the Federalists.

He stood a few minutes considering which streets would likely be the quietest road to his home, and seeing Broadway full of marching companies, all more or less musical and vociferous, he turned into Nassau Street, hoping to escape the cheers and attentions which his outspoken sympathy had brought him. For some distance it was comparatively quiet, but between Garden and Beaver streets he saw approaching what appeared to be a full company. They were stepping proudly to the music of “The President’s March,” and the narrow street appeared to Bloommaert’s eyes to be full of their waving flags.

There was no outlet for his escape, and he assumed a dignity of bearing and a self-centred air that was usually both arms and armour to him. He hoped to pass unnoticed, but as the company approached it halted at command. His name was spoken. He lifted his eyes perforce and up flew every hat in respectful recognition. What could he do? Some of them were the very men he had addressed and aroused to enthusiasm on the previous Saturday. His noblest nature came to the front. He saluted them in return, wished them “God speed,” and so passed on, but not before he had noticed the happy, triumphant face of their captain, Leonard Murray.

“That man again!” he muttered, and he could not dismiss “that man” from his memory during the rest of the walk. He passed his mother’s house but did not enter it, for it was nearing his dinner hour, and he hoped in the society of his wife and daughter to find the restful equipoise he had lost during the morning’s events. As he mounted the steps Sapphira threw open the door. Her face was radiant. She was the incarnation of pleasure.

“Father,” she cried, “I am so glad that you have come home early. I have such good news. Mother and I have had such a great honour; you can’t tell how happy we both feel.”

Her visible joy was infectious, and Bloommaert flung his annoyance out of memory. “Come, now,” he said cheerfully, “let us hear the good news. Who brought it to you?”

“Well, you would never guess, dear father, and I am going to let mother tell you.”

They entered the dining room as she spoke, and its cool sweetness was like a breath of heaven. Mrs. Bloommaert rose with a smile.

“Gerardus, my dear!” she exclaimed, “you are earlier than I hoped. That is good. Now we shall have dinner.”

“But Carlita, first the good news that Sapphira can hardly keep from me.”

“Has she not told you?”

“No. She says you are to tell me.”

“Well, then, it is very pleasant to her, and to me. Leonard Murray came here this morning just after you left. He had hoped to find you still at home—and he wanted us to select the uniform for his company. They are to fight under our colours, you see! He had many patterns of cloth with him, and we chose dark blue for the coats, and orange for the vest, and the head dress is to be dark blue cap with a rosette and streamers of red, white, and blue! The tricolour, my dear one—that was for my nation, and the blue and orange, that was for yours. Leonard was delighted. He is going to pay for the uniforms and support the company until the city puts it in active service. Then it will fight under our colours. Was it not kind and respectful of Leonard?”

“It was a piece of damned impertinence. I never heard of such impudence!”

“Father!”

“Gerardus, I am astonished at you!”

“The insolent puppy! What right had he? How dare he?”

“Mr. Justice, he only did what every young man of standing has done: the Clarksons, the Fairlies, the Westervelts, the Moores—every family of consideration has given its colours to some company or other. It is an honour, Mr. Justice, a great honour, and we are very proud of it. I told Leonard so.”

“Leonard, indeed! It seems that you are already very familiar.”

“Already! It is a long already. I have known the boy from the hour of his birth. His mother was my friend when we were both little girls. I was with his mother when she died. I promised her to be kind to Leonard whenever I had opportunity—the opportunity came this morning—I thought you would be pleased—and proud—but then, one never knows a man’s real feelings—never! After last Saturday, too—it is inconceivable.” Mrs. Bloommaert rose, and as her daughter followed her the judge was left alone with whatever answer he intended to make.

Generally, when an antagonist withdraws, the party left in possession of the ground feels a sense of victory. He tosses his head a little and triumphs in the fashion that best suits him. But Judge Bloommaert, standing with his doubled-up hand on his dining table, had a sinking sense of defeat. His large, dignified personality succumbed as the two slender slips of womanhood passed him—Carlita’s haughty little head expressing a disdainful disapproval, and Sapphira giving him a look from eyes full of reproachful astonishment.

A natural instinct led him to sit down in order to consider his ways. “What the deuce!” he exclaimed. “Confound the fellow! What does it all mean?” Then his logical mind began to reflect, to deliberate, to weigh his own case as relentlessly as if it was the case of a stranger. The result was a decision in favour of his wife’s and his daughter’s position. From their standpoint he had been unreasonable and inconsistent. And he could put in no demurrer; for the only objection he was able to make lay in that covert dislike to the young man for which he was unable to give any reason that would not be more humiliating than simple submission.

He had reached this point when a negro slave, dressed from head to foot in spotless white linen, entered the room. He was carrying a platter containing a sirloin of roast beef, and the appetising odour, blended with the fragrance of the fresh peas,—boiled with the sprig of mint they call for,—stimulated the judge to the necessary action. He rose promptly and went to the sitting room in the rear. At the door he heard Sapphira and her mother talking, but they were instantly silent as he entered. That was a symptom he did not regard. He knew the tactics that were always successful, and with a smile and a courtly bow he offered his arm to Mrs. Bloommaert. The courtesy was made invincible by the glance that accompanied it—a glance that was explanation, apology, and admiration sent swiftly and indisputably to her heart. Words would have been halting and impotent in comparison, and they were ignored. The only ones spoken referred to the waiting meal. “Dinner is served, Carlita,” and Carlita, with an answering glance of pardon and affection, proudly took the arm offered her. Ere they reached the door Sapphira was remembered, and her father stretched backward his hand for her clasp. Thus they entered the dining room together, and almost at the same moment they were joined by Christopher.

He was hot and sunburned but full of quiet satisfaction. He laid his arm across his mother’s neck as he passed her, and taking a seat next to his sister clasped her little hand lovingly under the table.

With beaming eyes she acknowledged this token of his affection, and then touching a piece of pale blue ribbon tied through a buttonhole of his jacket, she asked:

“Pray, Chris, who is now your patron saint? Last year it was good St. Nicholas, and orange was all your cry. Why have you forsaken your old patron and changed your colours?”

Chris laughed a little. “I was caught unaware, Sapphira,” he answered. “As I came up Cedar Street I saw Mary Selwyn cutting roses in Mr. Webster’s garden. She had a rose at her throat, and a rose in her hair, and a basket of roses in her hand, and she was as sweet and as pretty as any rose that ever bloomed in all New York. And she said ‘Good-morning, Captain Bloommaert; I hear you are soon for the ocean, and the enemy, and God be with you!’ And I said, ‘So soon now, Miss Selwyn, that this must be our good-bye, I think.’ Then she lifted her scissors and cut from the ribbon round her neck the piece I am wearing. ‘It is the full half,’ she said, ‘and I will keep the other half till you come home again happy and glorious.’”

“Well, then, it is your luck ribbon, Chris, and you must not change it,” said Sapphira.

“In a very few minutes I was under great temptation to do so, Sapphira. I thought I would call on grandmother, but as I got near to her house I saw Walter Havens just leaving the gate. He was walking very proudly, and a flutter of red ribbon was on his head, and the next step showed me a flutter of white skirts behind the vines on the veranda. So I knew cousin Annette had been setting him up till he felt as if he had twenty hearts instead of only one.”

“Did you speak to Annette after that observation?” asked his father.

“Why yes, sir. She saw me at once, and came running to open the gate. She had all her airs and graces about her and looked as radiant as the red ribbons she wore. She saw my blue ribbon immediately, and said scornfully, ‘Pray now, whose favour is that affair tied in your buttonhole? It is a poor thing, Chris! Shall I not give you an inch or two of my solitaire?’ and she lifted the housewife at her belt, and would have taken out her scissors. But I said, ‘No, no, Miss de Vries, I’m not taking shares with Walter Havens. I’ll just hold on to my ‘poor thing.’ I wonder how many rose ribbons you have given away this morning?”

“Did she tell you how many, Chris?” asked Mrs. Bloommaert.

“She looked as if she might have given a hundred, but she kept her secret—you may trust Annette to keep anything that belongs to her—even her secrets; and most women give them away. Annette de Vries knows better.”

“What did grandmother say?” asked Sapphira.

“I did not see her. She was in her room, asleep, Annette said. They are coming here this evening—with the Clarks, and perhaps others. You won’t mind, mother, will you?”

“Indeed I shall be glad, if you wish it, Chris.” For her heart had comprehended that his “good-bye” to Miss Selwyn meant that he was ready for sea. And it was Christopher’s habit to slip away on some night, or early morning tide, when there was no one around to embarrass his orders. For he was not a man that either liked or needed the approbation and sympathies of others; as a rule, Christopher Bloommaert’s approval was sufficient for him.

He was evidently full of business, and went away as soon as he had finished his dinner. The judge went with him, and Mrs. Bloommaert and her daughter, left alone, began instantly to discuss the subject of Christopher’s departure.

“It is his way,” said Mrs. Bloommaert. “The little party this evening is his farewell. We must make it as pleasant as possible. Your grandmother and Annette will be here, I suppose?”

“And the Clarks—Elsie and Sally, and Joe and Jack—and I suppose Leonard Murray will come with them,” answered Sapphira.

“I should not wonder if Chris asked Miss Selwyn also.”

“Very likely. She is a nice girl. I hope Chris did ask her. No one can help loving Mary Selwyn.”

“What shall we do? What would Chris like best? You know, Sapphira, if any one knows.”

“Let us have tea at six o’clock, then we can all go to the Battery to hear the music. There is a young moon, and it is warm enough to make the sea breezes welcome. Moffat’s Military Band is to play from the portico of the flagstaff to-night, and we can have ices and cakes and wine served to us in the enclosure if we want them.”

“You had better return home about nine o’clock, and I will have refreshments here ready for you. The large parlour can be somewhat cleared, Bose will bring his violin, and you might have a little dance. I don’t believe father will mind. He knows Chris is ready to sail. I could see that.”

“Oh, mother! Oh, dear mother, how good you are!”

The preparations for this rather impromptu gathering gave Mrs. Bloommaert very little trouble. Her servants were slaves, born in her own household, and whose share in all the family joy was certain and admitted. They entered heartily into the necessary arrangements, and in a short time the house had put on that air of festal confusion which the prospect of feasting and dancing entails.

Before six the guests began to arrive, and the eight or ten which Christopher’s speech had suggested speedily became twenty. It appeared as if the young man had casually invited all of his acquaintances. But Mrs. Bloommaert made every one welcome, and the slight difficulty in seating them—the little crush and crowding—really induced a very spontaneous and unconstrained happiness. Then there was trouble in serving all rapidly enough, so Christopher, and Joe Westervelt and Willis Clark volunteered their services, and to these three Mrs. Bloommaert herself added Leonard Murray, whom she appointed her special aid; and thus the tea became a kind of parlour picnic. The windows were all open, the white curtains swaying gently in the breeze, and the scent of roses everywhere mingled with the delightful aromas of fine tea, and spiced bread, and fresh, ripe strawberries. Merry talk and happy laughter thrilled the warm air, and it was a joy in itself to watch so many bright, young faces, all keenly responsive to the pleasure of each other’s presence.

Before seven o’clock they were ready for their walk on the Battery, and came trooping down the wide stairway, a brilliant company of lovely girls in their spencers of various coloured silks, and their pink or white frocks, their gipsy straw bonnets, and their low walking shoes fastened with silver or paste latchets. In twos and threes they sauntered along the lovely walk, and as the young moon rose, the band played sweetly from a boat on the water, and the waves broke gently against the wall of the embankment, their laughter and merry talk became lower and quieter. They rested on the benches, and made little confidences, and were very happy, though their joy was lulled and hushed, as if for this rare hour some friendly spirit had pressed gently down the soft pedal on life, and thus made its felicity more enchanting and more personal.

But if they forget the dance, their little feet had memories; they began to twitch and slip in and out, and grow restless; and Sapphira remembered the hour, though Leonard was charming, and the tale he was telling her, wonderful. “But then,” she said, “mother is expecting us, and those at home must not be disappointed; for if there is anything grandmother likes, it is to watch the dance.” So they went back to the Bloommaert house and found all ready and waiting for the cotillion. Upstairs with fleetest steps went the merry maidens, returning in less than ten minutes without their spencers, and with feet shod in satin sandals. The fiddles were twanging, and the prompter already advising gentlemen to choose their partners. Then the room became a living joy. The hearts of all beat with the twinkling steps of the dancers, and every one seized a measure of fleeting bliss, and for a breathing space in life forgot that they would ever grow weary or ever have to part.

Madame sat in her son’s chair, flushed and smiling, her eyes wandering between her granddaughters. They were certainly the most beautiful women in the room, and when the judge came quietly to her side about ten o’clock she said to him: “Look once at Annette; at her feet are half the men; and as for Sapphira, I know not what to make of her—all of the men are her lovers, but some one was telling me it is Leonard Murray only that pleases her. I take leave to say they are a handsome couple, Gerardus.”

Involuntarily he followed his mother’s direction, and was forced to admit the truth of her remark. But it gave him an angry pain to do so, while the young man’s expression of rapturous satisfaction provoked him beyond words. He had Sapphira’s hand, they were treading a measure—not so much to the music of the violins as to the music in their own hearts. They had forgotten the limitations of life, they were in some rarer and diviner atmosphere. Step to step, with clasped hands, and eyes beaming into each other’s face, they glided past him as if they were immortals moving to spheral music.

But beautiful as this vision of primal joy was, it roused no response in Judge Bloommaert’s heart, and after a few words with madame he slipped away to the quiet of his room. He was wakeful and restless, and he lifted the papers in a case which had some personal interest for him, and soon became absorbed in their details. Yet he was aware of that inevitable decrease of mirth which follows its climax, and not ill-pleased to hear the breaking up of the gathering. The chattering of the girls resuming their spencers and walking shoes made him lay down his papers and go to the open window, and so he watched the dissolution of happiness; for the company parted, even at his own door, into small groups, some merely crossing to the other side of the Green, others going to Wall, State, Cedar, and Nassau streets. The later party seemed the larger contingent, and he heard the men of it, as they passed northward, begin to sing, “We be Three Poor Mariners.” Christopher’s voice rang out musically cheerful, and the father’s heart swelled with love and pride, as he said tenderly, “God bless the boy.” The prayer was an exorcism; anger and all evil fled at the words of blessing, so that when Mrs. Bloommaert, flushed and weary, came to him he was able to meet her with the sympathy she needed.