Part 4

“Gerardus, my dear one,” she said, “Chris bade me good-bye; I am sure of it. He laid his cheek against mine and whispered, ‘A short farewell, mother!’ and all I could say was ‘God bless you, Chris!’”

“It was enough.”

“When does he sail?”

“About four o’clock in the morning. He will go out on the tide-top, then.”

“Where is he going?”

“To the Connecticut coast first, for supplies; easier got there than here; afterwards he goes nobody knows where, but as the Domine said last Sunday, he can’t go where God is not.”

“In that I trust. Did you notice the blue ribbon in his jacket?”

“Yes, I noticed.”

“He seemed very fond of Mary to-night. I could not help seeing his devotion. Mother noticed it, also.”

“What did mother say?”

“She said Mary was a good girl, of good stock, but she had not a dollar. I said, ‘love was everything in marriage, and that money did not much matter.’”

“Hum—m—! It does no harm.”

Then there was a short silence; madame was removing her lace cap and collar, and the judge putting away his papers. Both were thinking of the same thing, and neither of them cared to introduce the subject. But the judge’s patience was the better trained, and he calmly waited for the question he was sure would not be long delayed.

She rose as she asked it, went to her dressing table, and began to open her jewel box. “Did you notice Sapphira and Leonard Murray dancing? I thought I saw you watching them.”

“Yes, I saw them, and to tell you just what I thought of the exhibition would only pain you, Carlita. Don’t ask me.”

“I am sure I don’t know why I am not to ask you; every one was charmed with their grace. Even the elegant Mr. Washington Irving said their movements were ‘the poetry of motion.’ I thought it a very fine remark.”

“Well, I suppose Mr. Washington Irving knows all about the poetry of motion. But if you will believe me, Carlita, there are some Dutchman in New York who do not worship Mr. Washington Irving.”

Then there was another silence, and this time the judge broke it. “Carlita,” he said, “what are you going all around the square to ask me? Speak out, wife.”

“Well, Gerardus, any one can see that Leonard Murray is in love with Sapphira, and that Sapphira is not indifferent to him. I want to ask you if this marriage would be suitable, because if you are against it, their intimacy ought to be checked at once.”

“How are you going to check it? Tell me that. We cannot shut her up in her room and set a watch over her, nor can we pack her off to Hong Kong or Timbuctoo—out of his way.”

“Then you are against it?”

“Yes.”

“But what for?”

“I am not ready to give you my reasons.”

“I cannot imagine what they may be. Leonard is rich.”

“Very. Colonel Rutgers told me his estate in land and houses and ready cash might be worth seven hundred thousand dollars. But, as you reminded me in regard to Mary Selwyn, money in matrimony does not much matter.”

“I don’t think it is as important as love; though, as you said, money does no harm to matrimony. But it is not only money, with Leonard. He is of good family.”

“His great-grandfather was a Highland Scot, and James Murray, his father, cared for nothing but money. It was a bit of land here, and a dollar or two there—a hard man, both to friend and foe. I never liked him. We came to words often, and to blows once—that was about you, Carlita.”

“You had no need to quarrel about me. From the first to last it has been you, Gerardus; you, and only you.”

“Yet after we were engaged, James Murray asked you to marry him. No honourable man would have done such a thing.”

“Have you not forgotten? The man is dead. Let his faults be left in silence.”

“I do not like to see you so partial to his son.”

“The son is his mother’s son. He has qualities the very opposite of his father’s. James Murray was a bigot and a miser. Leonard has the broadest and most tolerant views.”

“There, you have said plenty. If there is any man not to be trusted, it is this broad, tolerant fellow. You remember Herman Strauss? He is that kind of character, brought up in the Middle Dutch Church, he married an Episcopalian, and without difficulty—being so broad—he went with her to Trinity. He praised the Democrats—Clintonian and Madisonian both—and yet he called himself a Federalist—thought that both were right in some ways. But like all men of this uncertain calibre, he had one or two trifling opinions, of no consequence whatever, either to himself or others, for whose sake he would lose money and friends, and even risk his life. It was only a question as to the brand of wine Mr. Jefferson drank, that made him insult Colonel Wilde, and in consequence fight a duel which has left him a cripple for life. So much for your man of wide sympathies and broad views! I like a man who has positive opinions and sticks to them. Yes, sticks to them, right or wrong! A man who sticks to his opinions will stick to his friends and his family. Good in everything! Good in every one! Nonsense! Such ideas lead to nowhere, and to nothing. The man that holds them I do not want to marry my daughter.”

“Mrs. Clark says Leonard’s moral character is beautiful.”

“Mrs. Clark has known him about four days. And pray, what does Mrs. Clark, or you, or any other woman know about a man’s moral character? Leonard Murray’s ancestors have been for centuries restless, quarrelsome, fighting Highlandmen. He is not twenty-two yet, and he has been as far west and south as he could get, and only came home because there was likely to be some fighting on hand.”

“But then, Gerardus—what have you behind you?”

“Centuries full of God-fearing Dutchmen—honest traders and peaceable burghers and scholarly domines.”

“Oh, yes, and Beggars of the Sea, and men who fought with De Ruyter and Tromp, and wandered to the ends of the earth with Van Heemskirk for adventures, and came with the Englishman, Henry Hudson, here itself, and did a little good business with the poor Indians. And Gerardus, look at your own sons—Christopher is never at home but when he is at sea. He is happier in a ship than a house, and also he likes the ship to carry cutlasses and cannon. As for Peter, you know as well as I do that if he were not building ships he would be sailing them. He loves a ship better than a wife. He knows all about every ship he ever built—her length and breadth and speed, how much sail she can carry, how many men she requires to manage her, and he calls them by their names as if they were flesh and blood. Does Peter ever go to see a woman? No; he goes to see some ship or other. Now then, what influence have your honest traders and peaceable burghers had on your sons?”

“My dear Carlita, don’t you see you are running away with yourself? You are preaching for my side, instead of your own. Chris and Peter are results, so is Leonard Murray. You can’t put nature to the door, Carlita. Nature is more than nurture; all that our home and education and trading surroundings could do for boys, was done for Peter and Chris; but nature was ahead of us—she had put into them the wandering salt drops of adventure that stirred ‘The Beggars,’ and Tromp, and Van Heemskirk. I tell you truly, Carlita, that the breed is more than the pasture. As you know, the cuckoo lays her eggs in any bird’s nest; it may be hatched among blackbirds or robins or thrushes, but it is always a cuckoo. And so we came back to my first position, that a man cannot deliver himself from his ancestors.”

“I do not care, Gerardus, about ancestors; I look at Leonard just as he is to-day. And I wish you would tell me plainly what to do. Or will you, yourself, let Leonard know your mind on this subject? Perhaps that would be best.”

“How can I speak to him? Can I refuse Sapphira until he asks for her? Can I go to him and say, ‘Sir, I see that you admire my daughter, and I do not intend to let you marry her.’ That would be offering Sapphira and myself for insult, and I could not complain if I got what I asked for.”

“Is there anything I can do, seeing that you object so strongly to Leonard?”

“Yes, you can tell Sapphira how much I feel about such an alliance; you can show her the path of obedience and duty; and I expect you to do this much. I did not like mother’s attitude about him at all, and I shall speak to her myself. Sapphira must be made to feel that Leonard Murray is impossible.”

“Well, Gerardus, I will speak to the poor little one. Oh, I am so sorry for her—she will feel it every way so much; but some fathers don’t care, even if they turn a wedding into a funeral.”

“Such words are not right, nor even true. I care for Sapphira’s welfare above everything.”

“Speak to mother; I wish you would. She will not refuse Leonard if he asks her for Annette. And Annette is already in love with him, I am not deceived in that. She was white with envy and jealousy to-night.”

“Is Annette in it?”

“Yes, and very much so, I think.”

“Then I give up the case. No man can rule right against three or four women. I am going to sleep now, and I hope it may be a long time before I hear Leonard Murray’s name again.”

His hope had but a short existence. When he entered the breakfast room the following morning, the first thing he saw was Sapphira bending over a basket of green rushes, running over with white rosebuds. She turned to him a face full of delight.

“See, father,” she cried. “Are they not lovely? Are they not sweet? If you kiss me, you will get their dew upon my lips.”

He bent his head down to the fragrant flowers, and then asked: “Where did you get them so early in the morning?”

“Leonard Murray sent them. Let me pin this bud on the lapel of your coat.”

“No,” he said bitterly, pushing the white hand and the white flower away. “Go to your room, and take the flowers with you. I will not have them in any place where I can see them.” Then a negro boy entering, he turned to him, and ordered his breakfast in a tone and manner that admitted of no delay nor dispute.

Sapphira had lifted her basket, but as soon as they were alone she asked: “Did you mean those unkind words, father?”

“Every one of them.” He shuffled his coffee cup, let the sugar tongs fall, and then rang the bell in a passion. Yet he did not escape the pathetic look of astonished and wounded love in Sapphira’s eyes as she left the room, with the basket of rosebuds clasped to her breast.

All day this vision haunted him. He wished to go home long before the usual hour, but that would have been a kind of submission. He said he had a headache, but it was really a heartache that distressed him, and during a large part of the day he was debating within himself how such an unhappy position had managed to subjugate him in so short a period of time. For, if any one a week previously had told him he could be controlled in all his tenderest feelings by a dislike apparently so unreasonable, he would have scoffed the idea away. He said frequently to himself the word “unreasonable,” for that was the troublesome, exasperating sting of the temptation. The young man himself had done nothing that any fair or rational person would consider offensive—quite the contrary; and yet he was conscious of an antagonism that was something more than mere dislike—something, indeed, that might easily become hatred.

He had just admitted the word “hatred” to his consciousness as he reached the entrance of the Government House. The day had at last worn itself away, wearily enough, to the dinner hour. He might now go home and face whatever trouble he had evoked.

“Good-afternoon, Mr. Justice.”

He turned, and the light of a sudden idea flashed into his face, when he saw the man who had accosted him.

“Good-afternoon to you, Mr. Attorney Willis. I am just thinking about that case you defended a few days ago—the case of the man Gavazzio. A strange one, rather.”

“A very strange case. He stabbed a man for no reason whatever; simply said he hated him, and seemed to think that feeling justification enough.”

“See the Italian consul about him. I do not think he had broken any Italian law—that is, there are unwritten laws among these people, of a force quite as strong as the written code. We must take that fact into consideration with the sentence. The stabbed man is recovering, I hear?”

“Oh, yes; I will see the consul, as you desire it. Gavazzio most certainly thought we were interfering in his private affairs by arresting him.”

“I have no doubt of it. Well, Mr. Attorney, the law is supreme, but we must not forget that the essence of the law is justice. Good-day, sir.”

This incident, so spontaneous and so unconsidered, gave him a sense of satisfaction; he felt better for it, though he did not ask himself why, nor wherefore, in the matter. As he approached his home he saw Sapphira sitting at the window, her head bent over the work she was doing. She heard her father’s step, she knew he was watching her, but she did not lift her eyes, or give him the smile he expected. And when he entered the room she preserved the same attitude. He lifted a newspaper and began to read it; the servants brought in the dinner, and Mrs. Bloommaert also came and took her place at the table. She was not the usual Carlita at all, and the judge had a very depressing meal. As for Sapphira, she did not speak, unless in answer to some direct question regarding her food. She was pale and wretched-looking, and her eyes were red with weeping.

The judge ate his roast duck, and glanced at the two patient, silent, provoking women. They were making him miserable, and spoiling his food,—and he liked roast duck,—yet he did not know how to accuse them. Apparently they were perfectly innocent women, but unseen by mortal eyes they had the husband and father’s heart in their little white hands, and were cruelly wounding it. When dinner was over Sapphira lifted her work and went to her room, and Mrs. Bloommaert, instead of sitting down for her usual chat with her husband while he smoked his pipe, walked restlessly about, putting silver and crystal away, and making a great pretence of being exceedingly interested in her investigations. He watched her silently until she was about to leave the room, then he said a little peremptorily, “Carlita, where are you going? What, by heaven and earth, is the matter with you!”

“You know what is the matter, Gerardus.”

“I suppose the trouble is—Leonard Murray again. Confound the man!”

“Mr. Justice, you will please remember I am present. I think you behaved very unkindly to Sapphira this morning—and the poor little one has had such an unhappy day! my heart bleeds for her.”

“Well, Carlita, I was too harsh, I will admit that; but I cannot tell Sapphira that I was wrong. It was all said and done in a moment—the sight of the flowers, and her joy in them—”

“I know, Gerardus. I must confess to the same temper. When I came downstairs, and found you had gone without your proper breakfast, and that you had neither come upstairs to bid me good-bye, nor yet left any message for me, I was troubled. And I had a headache, and had to go to Sapphira’s room to get her to come to the table, and the sight of her crying over those tiresome rosebuds made me angry; and I said more and worse than you did. I told her she ought to be ashamed to put her father out for any strange man; and that the fuss she was making over Leonard Murray was unmaidenly; and that the young man himself was far too free and demonstrative—oh, you know, Gerardus, what disagreeable things a fretful mother has the liberty to say to her child! And then, as if all this was not enough, Annette came in about eleven o’clock, and I told her Sapphira was not well, but she would go to her. And, of course, the first things she noticed were the white roses and Sapphira’s trouble, and the little minx put two and two together in a moment. What do you think she said, Gerardus?”

“Pitied Sapphira, I suppose.”

“She clapped her hands and cried out, ‘Oh, you also got roses! White ones! Mine were pink—such lovely pink rosebuds! My colour is pink, you know.’ And Sapphira answered, ‘I thought it was blue,’ but Annette dropped the subject at once and began to rave about Sapphira’s swollen face and red eyes, and offered her a score of remedies—and so on. Sapphira could only suffer. You know she would have died rather than express either curiosity or annoyance. So, then, having given Sapphira the third and cruelest blow, she went tripping away, telling her ‘to sleep, and not to dream of the handsome Leonard.’ I generally go to Sapphira after a visit from Annette, and when I went to the poor child’s room she was sobbing as if her heart would break. She told me what Annette said, and cried the more, because she had been scolded both by you and me, and all for nothing.”

“Poor little one!”

“Yes, indeed, Gerardus. These young hearts suffer. We have forgotten how little things seemed so great and so hard in our teens; but every heart is a fresh heart, and made that it may suffer, I think.”

“I do not believe Annette got a basket of pink roses. I do not like Murray, but I think there are things he would not do. I saw a letter too—at the bottom of the basket. Oh, I do not believe Annette!”

“That is so. I told Sapphira it was a lie—oh, yes, I will say the word straight out, for I do think it was a lie. But she is a clever girl. She took in all sides of the question as quick as lightning. She knew they were from Leonard, and that there had been trouble, and she knew Sappha would never name pink roses to Leonard. She was safe enough in Sappha’s pride, for, though she gave a positive impression that Leonard had sent her a basket of pink roses, she never said it was Leonard. If brought to examination, she would have pretended astonishment at Sapphira’s inference, modestly refused the donor’s name, and very likely added ‘indeed, it was only a little jealousy, dearest Sapphira, that caused you to misunderstand me.’ You see, I have known Annette all her life. She always manages to put Sapphira in the wrong; and at the same time look so sweetly innocent herself.”

“What is to be done in this unhappy affair, Carlita? Sit here beside me, wife, and tell me. For you are a wise, kind woman, and you love us all.”

“God knows, Gerardus! I have been thinking, thinking, thinking, through the livelong day, and what I say is this—let those things alone that you cannot manage. Because you cannot manage them, they make you angry; and you lose your self-respect, and then you lose your temper, and then, there is, God knows, what other loss of love and life and happiness. My father used to say—and my father was a good man, Gerardus.”

“No better man ever lived than father Duprey.”

“Well, then, he always said that birth, marriage, and death were God’s part; and that marriage was the most so of all these three great events. For birth only gives the soul into the parent’s charge for perhaps twenty years; and then all the rest of life is in the charge of the husband. As for death, then, it is God Himself that takes the charge. Let the young ones come and go; they may be fulfilling His will and way—if we enquire after His will and way.”