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.

“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.”

“But if Murray speaks to me for Sapphira, what then?”

“There is the war. Tell him marriage is impossible until peace comes. War time is beset with the unexpected. In love affairs, time is everything. Speak fairly and kindly, and put off.”

“Very good, Carlita. But if I should discover any reason why the marriage should not be, this time plan is not the thing. If a love affair ought to be broken off, it ought to be done at once—and if there should be any truth in those pink roses!”

“Well, Gerardus, if you are expecting trouble, you may leave Annette to make it. But my opinion is that Sapphira ought to be trusted. If you believe that God gave her into our charge for her sweet childhood and girlhood, can you not trust Him to order her wifehood and motherhood; and even in old age, to carry her and direct her way? If He foresaw her parents, also, He foresaw her husband. Are you not interfering too soon, and too much? After all, what can we do against destiny?”

“You are right, Carlita. Go now and comfort the poor child a little. You know what to say—both for yourself and for me.”

Then Mrs. Bloommaert rose, smiling trustfully and happily, but at the door she turned. Her husband went toward her, and she toward him, and when they met, she kissed him with untranslatable affection. Again she was at the door, and the judge stood in the middle of the room watching her. As she slowly opened it, he made up his mind about something he had been pondering for a couple of weeks.

“Carlita,” he said, “you may tell Sapphira that to-morrow I will buy her that grand pianoforte at Bailey & Stevens’, that she was so delighted with.”

“Oh, my dear Gerardus!”

“It is not white rosebuds, but yet she may like it.” He could not help this little fling.

“There is nothing in all the world she wanted so much, though she never dreamed of possessing it.”

“We shall see, dear! We shall see!”

In about half an hour the door opened gently, and there was a swift, light movement. Then Sappha was at his knees, and her face was against his breast, and he bent his head, and she threw her white arms around his neck and kissed him. There was no word spoken; and there was none needed—the kiss—the kneeling figure—the clasping arms, were the clearest of explanations, the surest of all promises. Verily “he that ruleth his spirit is stronger than he who taketh a city.”

CHAPTER THREE

A Sweetness More Desired than Spring

But the lover’s power is the poet’s power. He can make love from all the common strings with which this world is strung. And this time was far from being common; it was thrilled through and through by rumours of war, of defeat and of victory, so that the sound of trumpets, and the march of fighting men were a constant obligato to the most trivial affairs. No one knew what great news any hour might bring. Expectation stood on tiptoe waiting for the incredible. This was not only the case in America. All over Christendom the war flags were flying, and the nations humbling themselves before the great Napoleon. With an army of more than half a million men he was then on his way to invade the dominions of the Emperor of Russia, and at the same time he was waging war with England and Spain, in the Spanish peninsula. The greater part of the rest of Europe was subject to his control; and England was necessarily at war, not only with Napoleon, but with all the other powers of Europe, who were either allies or dependents of Napoleon. Under such circumstances it was hardly likely that she would send any greater force from her continental wars than she thought necessary to maintain her possessions in America. Thus, as yet, there was all the stir and enthusiasm of war, without any great fear of immediate danger.

Leonard came and went, as many other young men did, to the house of Bloommaert; and their talk was all of fighting. But the eyes have a language of their own; the hands speak, flowers and books and music, all were messengers of love, and did his high behests. Moreover, New York was even abnormally gay. She gave vent to her emotions in social delights and unlimited hospitality. Tea-and card-parties, assemblies or subscription balls, excursions up the river, visits to Ballston mineral springs, riding and driving, and the evening saunter on the Battery—when the moon shone, and the band played, and embryo heroes brought ices and made honest love—all these things were part and parcel of these early days of war, in eighteen hundred and twelve; and Leonard Murray and Sapphira Bloommaert met under such happy circumstances continually.

The Bowling Green was the heart of this festivity, for it was the headquarters of the military commanders; and all the colour and pomp of war centred there. Every morning Sappha awoke to the sound of martial music; and every hour of daylight the sidewalks were gay with the uniforms of the army and the militia. It was Annette’s misfortune to live in Nassau Street; but then, as she said, “a great many officers found Nassau Street a convenient way to the Battery.” Doubtless they did so, for her pretty face among the flowers and tantalising shrubbery of the house was an attraction worth going a little out of the way for. However, both Annette and Madame Bloommaert spent much time at the house on the Bowling Green; and no one was more interested in public affairs than the judge’s mother. Her daughter-in-law had many other cares and duties; but the war to Madame Jonaca Bloommaert was the pivot on which all her interests hung.

She was sitting, one morning towards the end of July, eating breakfast with her granddaughter. There was a little breeze wandering about the old place, and madame wore her white Canton crape shawl, a sure sign that she intended to go to the Bowling Green. Well Annette had prepared herself for such a likely visit, and she looked with complacent satisfaction at her figured chintz frock, and her snow-white pelerine of the sheerest muslin.

“About that affair at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church last Sunday, I want to ask your uncle Gerardus,” said madame. “I take leave to say it was not respectable. I can hardly credit the tale—eh; what do you think?”

“It must be true, grandmother; I was at the dinner table yesterday when cousin Peter came in and told us.”

“Told you? What then?”

“He said that after leaving church on Sunday morning, and seeing us safely to our gate, he went up Nassau Street and crossed the City Hall Park, intending to call on John Van Ambridge. Not finding him at home, he took the Broadway to the Bowling Green, and as he was passing St. Paul’s Episcopal Church an artillery regiment marched out of the church, playing Yankee Doodle; and so up Broadway, to both the outspoken anger and outspoken pleasure of the crowd. Many men called on them to cease; others bid them go on, and there was a commotion that would likely have been much greater, if it had not been Sunday.”

“What said Peter?”

“He did not like it; he said it never could have happened at the Middle Dutch Church, and so he laid all the blame on Episcopacy.”

“And what said your uncle?”

“He did not like it either. He thought the officers should be reprimanded. What do you say, grandmother?”

“I like it.”

Annette smiled with a pleasant anticipation. She rather enjoyed a difference of opinion between the household powers. There was generally some small advantage in one way or another as a result. Reconciliations were sure to follow, and reconciliations brought laxities and favours—not infrequently gifts. She did not forget Sappha’s new piano—the white roses and the tear-stained face, and as a natural sequence—the piano.

As they took their way to the Bowling Green madame noticed an unusual quiet in the streets, but Annette, to whom the Bowling Green represented New York, thought everything very lively. The musical exit from St. John’s supplied the conversation, or at least seasoned it with a just interesting acrimony, till the dinner hour arrived. The judge was always pleased to see his mother, and always placed her in his own seat at the table when she eat with them, and this loyal respect and kindness, though so often repeated, never failed to touch madame as if it was a new thing that very hour. So she spoke far more tolerantly than she intended, about the scene at St. John’s, and expended her little store of wrath upon an ordinance which the Common Council had just passed, making it unlawful for any one but those in actual service to beat drums or play fifes on the streets, except under great restrictions as to time. Madame indignantly declared such a law to be “a restriction on the liberty of the individual;” and she reminded her son how much of a sinner he himself had been, when the Revolutionary War was beginning.

“You were then a lad of only ten years old, Gerardus, yet the drum was never out of your hands, unless you were playing the fife,” she said.

“I am sorry to hear this, mother,” he answered. “The suffering that has been caused by such exhibitions of boyish patriotism is beyond our counting. The healthy have been made sick, the sick have been made worse, and in many cases, undoubtedly, they have died in consequence of the perpetual noise. Latterly these bands have taken to beating drums incessantly before the house of any one thought to be opposed to the war, and the general distress has compelled householders to beseech the Town Council for its interference.”

“An old woman am I,” said madame, “but the noise never annoyed me.”

“Mother, you are not an old woman, and you will never be old. If you see one hundred years, you will die young.”

She put out her thin, brown hand towards her son at this compliment, and he laid his own all over it. Then she added a little defiantly: “More noise than ever we shall have in a day or two. Just nobody, is the Common Council. The new disease is noise, and the boys all have it.”

“Well, then, mother, the law will make short work of it—there is a heavy fine and the watch-house for those who do not mind the law.”

“Poor boys!”

“I think we have had enough of that subject,” said Mrs. Bloommaert; “is there no other news, Gerardus?”

“Well, my friend General Bloomfield is to be relieved of his command here; so my pleasant evening smoke and chat with him will soon come to an end. I heard, also, that the company raised by Leonard Murray had joined Colonel Harsen’s artillery regiment, and offered their services as a body to the governor, and that it has been accepted. Some parts of it will go to Staten Island, others to Bedloe’s Island and the Narrows.”

He did not raise his eyes as he made this statement, or he must have seen the face of his daughter flush and pale at his words. She understood from them that Leonard would leave New York, and she could not imagine how long his absence might be. Mrs. Bloommaert did not speak; but she looked curiously at the dropped countenance of her husband. In some dim, undefined way, she came in a moment to the conclusion that this bit of military movement had been effected by General Bloomfield, in order to please his friend. Annette shrugged her shoulders and said some one, or something, always carried off her friends. She wondered what she should do without Leonard—he was so obliging, so merry, so always on hand when she wanted him, and so discreetly absent when she would have felt him a nuisance. She went on in a pretty, complaining way, as if Leonard was her special friend, or even lover, and though all present looked at her with a mild astonishment, no one cared to contradict the position she had taken. Madame even endorsed it by her unconscious affectation of sympathy. “You have a trifle of eight or ten other admirers, child,” she said; “and Leonard Murray is by no means unparagoned. A token give to him, and let him go; a little discipline, that will be good for him.”

This discussion had given Sappha time for self-control, and Mrs. Bloommaert looked with admiration at her daughter. She had feared some scornful or passionate word, but the face of Sappha was as calm as that of a sleeping child. She had taken possession of herself completely; and she asked her mother for some delicacy she wanted, with an air of one only concerned about her dinner. For by a strong mental effort she had closed the door on Leonard for the time being: she loved him too well, and too nobly, to babble about her relations with him—especially with her cousin Annette.

She asked her father for no further information, and he was pleased at her reticence; so much so that he gently stroked her hair as he passed her seat in going out; and the smile she gave him in return made him thoroughly respect her. It was a time when it was considered a mark of refinement in a woman to weep readily; and if under the stress of any unusual joy or grief or disappointment she fainted away, she was thought to have done the right thing to prove her exquisite sensibility. But if Sapphira had fainted on hearing of her lover’s departure, the judge would never have stroked her hair, and she would also have missed that comprehensive, kindling glance from her mother, which at once bid her be brave for the occasion, and assured her of sympathy.

But the weariest river finds the sea somewhere, and the time and the hour run through the longest day. There were visitors after dinner, and then tea-time came and went; and the judge prepared himself to see his mother and niece safely to their home.

“And, Carlita, my dear,” he said, “I may not be home until late. There is to be a meeting at Tammany Hall to approve the war, and considering our conversation to-day at dinner, one thing about the call is worth telling you—it is ‘recommended to citizens of forty-five years of age and upward.’”

Madame laughed and gave her long mitts an impatient jerk—“these greybeards of ‘forty-five and upward’ are going to talk very wisely, no doubt,” she said; “but the young men it is, who will man the ships and the batteries, and the real fighting do.”

“The old men will lead them, mother.”

“Sixteen were you when you went to the front in the last war, Gerardus; and Aaron Burr, who was no older, if as old, carried messages between Arnold and Montgomery through the thick of the fight at Quebec; and when Montgomery fell, little Burr it was who caught his body and carried it out of the line of fire through a very rain of bullets—a boy, mind you!”

“Mother, I have divested myself of all community of feeling with the man called Aaron Burr, and of all interest whatever in his sayings and doings.”

“There it is! However, the sayings and doings will talk for themselves some day. Come, let us be going. Carlita looks worn out with our chatter.”

Carlita did not deny the imputation, and as soon as the echo of their footsteps had died away in the distance, she said, “Sappha, carry the candles into the other parlour. I want to lie down on the sofa. I want to be quiet and dark, and find out where I am, and what I am. The strain has been very hard. Nassau Street always leaves me feeling fit for nothing but sleep.”

“And then to end it, that weary Aaron Burr controversy. Can’t people let him alone?”

“No! When he did well, he heard it never; now they say he has done ill, he hears of it day in and day out.”

So Sappha went to the best parlour, where the piano still stood open, with the new music scattered over it. She put it in order, and the very act brought her a restful, thoughtful mood. Then she closed the instrument, and drawing a comfortable chair before the window she sat down to commune with her own heart. If what her father had said concerning Leonard’s company was correct—and she had no doubt of it—then it was almost certain Leonard would himself call and tell her. He might call that very night; she was finally sure he would call, and her ears took intent note of every sound, and of every coming footstep.

Very rarely are our hopes and wishes accomplished! But this hour was favourable to Sappha’s love. In a very short time she heard the strong, quick steps she was waiting to hear; and her face grew luminous with pleasure, and a sweet smile made her little red mouth enchanting. She did not go to meet him—the front door stood wide open these summer evenings, and there was a distinct luxury in sitting still and waiting for the approach of happiness. It was approaching so surely, so swiftly, and as the steps came near, and more near, she heard in that scarcely broken silence the oracle of her heart.

He entered softly, with a grace half-mystical and half-sensuous; and without a word stood over her. Then she lifted her eyes, and he saw their bright light turn tender, and he stooped and laid his cheek against hers, and whispered: “Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me, Sappha? Speak, dearest! Speak quickly! Oh, speak kindly!”

And her soul flew to her lips, and there was no need of words. Love found a sweeter interpretation.

“Thy little white hand, give it to me.”

She had no will to refuse it, almost of its own will it slipped between the two strong hands that held it fast. Then he found out those happy love words that are so glad that they dance as they burn; those words at once so simple and so wise, so gentle and so strong.

And the great marvel of love is ever this—the slenderness of the knowledge and experience which compels one human being to say to another, “I love you!” which compels souls to rush together, as if they were drawn by some such irresistible attraction as compels planets to follow their orbits. Both were so young and so happy that they made each other seem lovelier as they sat with clasped hands, speaking of Leonard’s company and its destination.

“How shall I endure your absence, Leonard? I know not. You are my life, now, dear one,” said Sappha.

“But, Sappha, my sweet, I shall be in your thoughts, as you in mine; and we shall not know that we are apart. Besides, it will be only for ninety days.”

“Ah, but, Leonard, love reckons days for years, and every little absence is an age! The tedious hours will move heavily away, and every minute seem a lazy day.”

“Where have you learned all this?”

“You taught me.”

“Oh, love! love! love! How sweet you are! When I return, then you will be my wife. Let me speak to your father and mother to-night. Why should we wait?”

“Leonard, I have promised my father and mother that I will not engage myself to any one, until the war is over.”

“But that was before this happy hour. Such a promise cannot now stand, darling.”

“It cannot be broken. How could you ever trust me if I was false to the dear father and mother who love me so much?”

“But we are engaged, Sappha. No mere ceremony of asking consent can ever make us more truly one.”

“Then, my love, be content with that knowledge.”

“The war may last a lifetime.”

“It may be over in a year—or less.”

The love-light in her eyes, her tremulous smiles, her penetrative loveliness, her confident heart’s still fervour, filled him with an inward gladness that was unspeakable. His eyes dilated with rapture; he felt as if he was walking on air, and breathing some diviner atmosphere. The joy of love had gone to his head like wine.

In a little while Mrs. Bloommaert came into the room, and though she was sleepy and distrait, she could not but notice the couple who stood up hand-in-hand to meet her. Sappha was eighteen years old, but her radiant face looked almost childlike in its innocent joyousness; and Leonard at her side was the incarnation of young manhood; endowed with strength and grace and beauty, and crowned with the glory of fortunate love.

Leonard wished her to understand, but she smiled away all explanations, and pretended a little worry over her long sleep, and the late hour; and there was nothing left for Leonard but to say “Good-night.” They both went to the door with him, and when he was out of sight, the door was shut and the mother said, “I must have been asleep! Your father will be here soon, Sappha. You had better go to bed. I suppose Leonard is going with the men he raised.”

“Yes, he is going.”

“He ought to be glad to go. It is good for a young man to have some experiences. Well, dear one, the day is over; and you must be tired.”

Then Sappha perceived that her mother did not wish to know authentically, what she understood clearly enough; and a little saddened by this want of sympathy, she went quietly into solitude with her joy.

The three months that followed this interview were filled with incident. New Yorkers needed no theatre; the war supplied every emotion of dismay and triumph of which the human heart is capable. “On to Canada!” had been the slogan at its commencement; and General Hull with over two thousand fine troops quickly took peaceable possession of the little village of Sandwich, on the Canadian shore. His first dispatches threw New York into a tumult of excitement and delight. The American flag was flying on both sides of the Niagara River, and from the grandiloquent proclamation Hull had made the Canadians, and his first dispatches, it really appeared as if Canada had fallen. But even while bells were ringing and cannons firing jubilates for this news, Hull himself had thrown out the white flag from his fort at Detroit, and surrendered the stronghold and all his forces without firing a gun. The anger and mortification of the people were in due season, however, turned into triumph; for if General Hull surrendered on the nineteenth of August, Captain Hull of the frigate Constitution on the tenth of August took the British man-of-war Guerrière on the coast of Newfoundland; and the news of this victory, which arrived in New York about the first of September, roused the wildest enthusiasm.

This circumstance indicates very well the progress of the war. The army operations on the Canadian frontier were everywhere disastrous to America; on the ocean her ships vindicated by constant brilliant victories the descent of her sailors from that great maritime power whose flag had braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze. There is not in all history a more splendid naval record than the United States made during these ninety days of alternate dismay and triumph. And no city felt these wonderful sea victories quite as New York did. Her great ship-yards on the East River had sent out the armed frigates and brigs, that were covering the nation, even in the eyes of her enemy, with a great and unexpected glory. The Constitution! the President! the Essex! the United States! these gallant ships had a kind of personality to New Yorkers. They had seen them grow to perfection in Christian Bergh’s and Adam Brown’s yards. They had stood godfathers at their christening, and they watched their valiant careers almost as a father watches his son’s course to a glorious success.

On the fourth of September Sappha and Mrs. Bloommaert were in Greenwich Street shopping, when they suddenly heard a wild shout of joy. “The Constitution! the Constitution!” From mouth to mouth the two words flew like wild-fire. The whole city was roaring them. The bells clapped them out. The cannon sent them thundering over land and sea. Men meeting, though strangers, clasped hands; and women threw themselves into each other’s arms, weeping. Was there feeling enough left for a maid to be lovelorn or melancholy? Not in Sappha’s case. She gave her whole heart to rejoice with her country first, and then proudly remembered the dear youth who must at that moment be rejoicing with her.

Letters from him came more frequently than she had dared to hope. Some one available as a messenger was frequently at the Narrows fort, and Leonard never missed an opportunity. There was no restriction on this correspondence by her father and mother, though at the beginning of it the judge strongly advised restriction.

“Written words cannot be denied or rubbed out, Carlita,” he said. “I know what young men are. Suppose Leonard should show Sappha’s letters to some companion.”

“Suppose an impossibility, Gerardus.”

“Not so. A man in love is always a vain man, if his love is returned. He has conquered, and he puts on all the airs of a victor. He usually wants some one to admire and envy him, and a love letter is a visible proof of his prowess among women. I would not allow Sappha to write.”

“Then you are in the wrong, my dear one. Nothing is better for a lover than a course of love letters. It is the finest education for marriage.”

“They say so many extravagant things.”

“Very well. That is good. They get used to saying fine things, then they feel them, and ’tis no harm at all for a lover to write down his mistress ‘an angel.’ He may treat her the better for it, all their lives together.”

“So! so! Take thy own foolish way, wife. I do not forget thy dear little love notes—and ever the few leaves of sweet brier in them. I can smell it yet.”

So Sappha had her love letters, and she also wrote them. Leonard’s were like himself, frankly outspoken, full of extravagancy, both in love and war. “He loved her as never man loved before;” and she saw the words shine on the paper, and believed in them with all her soul. “He longed for those unspeakable English tyrants to come within reach of their guns, they would be sunk twenty fathoms deep in no time—then, then, then, oh, then he would fly to her, as a bird to its nest!” Love and glory mingled thus, until love took entire possession; then the conclusion was a passionate exploiting of that yearning word “why?” “Why could they not be married when he returned? Why should they wait? Why did she not think as he did? Why consider the war at all? Why let that old tyrant of a motherland called England interfere in their happiness? Why let anything? Or anybody?” There had been little parties of visitors at the Narrows, “Why had she not persuaded her father and mother to sail so far with her? Why, in short, did she not understand that life was dreadfully dull in the fort, and that a sight of her would be heaven to him? Why? Why? Why did she not love him as wildly and fondly and eternally as he loved her?”

All this exaggeration was the most beautiful truth to Sapphira. She adored her lover for the very prodigality of his pleas and protestations. It was right and proper that lovers should suffer all the pangs of separation; she was rather proud of Leonard’s wailing and complaining; and careful not to comfort it too much, by comparing it with her own. Indeed she rather affected the style of a sweet little mentor, bound to remind him that he must love honour, even before herself. And she so blended their own hopes and happiness with domestic and public affairs as to make her letters all that a daily paper might be to a man shut up in prison, or in a fort in a wilderness. Leonard saw through them, the New York he loved, the busy, hopeful people, talking, trading, singing, smoking, loving, living through every sense they had; and he felt with the keenest delight all Sappha’s sweet self-disparagements and compunctions for her own happiness and good fortune in being beloved by him.

“I cannot tell you, my own dear friend,” she wrote on the sixth of November, “how happy your assurances of affection make me. People who are very, very happy do not know how to write down their joy. I have no words but the old, old ones—I do so love you! If I but think of your name, I bless it forever. When your letters come, I kiss the seal before I open them; when I write you a letter I look love into every word I write. My father does not speak of you—oh, there is so much else for him to talk of! My mother looks only the sweet sympathy she will not utter, until my father wills it—and in that she is right, I think. Annette may suspect, but she knows nothing certainly; our secret is very much our own yet, and the dearer for it. You would say so also, if you could see and hear New York at the present time. In spite of our small deprivations, we are all very happy. The militia stationed here are having a most sociable time, and there are parades and reviews constantly in progress. The theatre is now filled every night it is open, and if only some gallant privateer, or some sailor from the ships comes in, the performance has to stop until he has been cheered to the skies. I am sorry, my dearest friend, that you did not join the navy; for just now sailors are the idols of our city—I do not mean that—oh, no! I could not bear to think of you at sea. I am counting the days and the hours now. I heard mother tell Annette that the men at the Narrows would be home for the great parade on Evacuation Day, Annette clapped her hands and said ‘then Leonard Murray will return to us; and I shall ask grandmother to give him a dinner. He will be so glad to see me,’ she added, ‘and I shall be so glad to see him.’ She put me out of calculation, and I did not mind; for if you remember, what care I if all the world forgets me? It is too bad the English ships will not give you a chance of glory, we have almost forgot how to fear them. Every one is in high spirits; we have no doubt of God, nor our country, nor of our brave sailors and soldiers. And, oh, Leonard! dear, dear Leonard, I have not one doubt of you. So then I send you my heart; for I do trust you, Leonard, for all the joy that life shall bring me. Yes I do! I do! Sappha.”

Such foolish words! Ah, no! Such words of delightful wisdom! And happy indeed is the woman who in her youth hides such letters away in her Book of Life. They will sweeten every page of it—even to the very end.

CHAPTER FOUR

Introduces Mr. Achille St. Ange

“I do not think there will be anything of the kind, Annette. Your aunt will have to use the largest room for dinner, and dinner dishes are not moved by magic. Also, I do not intend to remain there all night; so fine is the weather we can easily return home. It has been such a tumultuous day that I shall need sleep, and out of my own bed I never get it.”

“But the parade was splendid, grandmother; and I am sure you are glad you saw it.”

“Oh, my child, my years it made me count. So well I remember the first Evacuation Day parade. General Washington and the victorious army led it. Then I wept because your grandfather was not among living heroes—to-day I did not weep—so soon we shall meet again.” A sound of distant music arrested speech, and they listened in silence till it died away. Then Annette said: “There are to be so many public dinners, and the theatre is to be brilliantly illuminated. Oh, grandmother, I wish you would let me go with the Westervelt party to the theatre. What excitement there will be there! What cheering and singing and fine acting! and at uncle’s!—well, you know what uncle’s Evacuation dinners are—ten or twelve old men who were in his company will be there; and they will tell the same stories, and sing the same songs, and pay the ladies the same compliments. I would like to go to the theatre.”

“To your uncle’s dinner party you will go to-night; and I think the dress you are spangling is too light. You had better wear something warmer.”

“Grandmother, I saw Sappha’s dress yesterday—it is a white gauze with brilliant crimson roses scattered over it; and it is to be worn over a rich, white satin slip. Do you want me to look a dowdy beside her?”

“Like a dowdy you could not look, not if you tried to, Annette. Of your health I want you to take good care. Your mother had very weak lungs.”

“My lungs are strong enough, grandmother, it is my heart that is so dangerously weak. It is always giving me sensations. Leonard Murray has come back so handsome, I felt my heart as soon as I saw him.”

“Annette, in such a way as that a good girl should not talk, even to her grandmother. I do not think it is respectable. I am too lenient with you, and you are too free with me.”

“Grandmother, who is that? He is coming in here. I never saw the man before. How handsome! how genteel! how simply noble he looks! I must send Lucas to open the door.”

In a minute or two the stranger let the knocker fall lightly in a rat-tat-tat, and the little negro boy who answered his summons put him into the chill best parlour, and brought his card to madame. She read the name on it with difficulty, and passing the card to Annette, drew her brows together in an effort of remembrance.

“Mr. Achille St. Ange.”

“St. Ange! St. Ange! Ah, yes, I now recollect. Gertrude Bergen married a French gentleman called St. Ange. Gertrude and I were schoolgirls together. I was one of her bridesmaids. This young man must be her grandson. It seems incredible—impossible——”

“But in the meantime, grandmother, this young man is waiting in the cold parlour.”

“I had forgotten. Let Lucas bring him here. Do you hear, Lucas?”

“Yes, madame.”

In a few moments Mr. St. Ange entered, with the air and manner of a prince; bowing first to madame, and then, with a shade less deference, to Annette. His slight, agile figure had the erect carriage of one born to command; and his general appearance and aspect was suggestively haughty, and yet when people became familiar with him, they saw only a careless tolerance of all opinions, and a certain compatibility of temper, which easily passed for good nature. His hair was intensely black and soft, and lay in straight locks on his white brow; his eyes, equally dark, were full of a sombre fire; his skin had the pallor of the hot land from which he came.

Madame rose to welcome him and remained standing until he was seated, then she smilingly resumed her chair, and said:

“Indeed, Mr. St. Agne, for a moment I had forgotten. Backward for more than half a century I had to think—then I remembered your grandmother—Gertrude Bergen. Am I right?”

“Madame is correct,” he answered; “my grandmother died ten years ago. My mother is also no longer with the son, who needs her so much. I have come to New York, and I have ventured to present a claim on your kindness three generations old.”

His handsome face, his direct manner, the utter absence of anything subtle in his air or appearance, perhaps even the grave richness of his perfectly suitable attire prepossessed both women instantly in his favour. Madame took out wine and cake with her own hands; Annette was the cup-bearer, and he accepted the service with a grace far more flattering than any challenge or deprecation of it could have been. And as Annette handed him the glass, he incidentally—quite incidentally, indeed—lifted his eyes to hers, and the glance seemed to rivet her to the spot, to include not only her vision, but her very soul.

Mr. Achille St. Ange wanted a friend, that was all; and madame promised to do her best to advise him in the new life upon which he was entering. They talked a little of his Louisiana home, and of his future intentions, but the visit was not prolonged at this time. “He had made his introduction,” he said, “the future he hoped to justify it.”

The advent of this rekindled friendship was quite an event to madame. She could do nothing but talk of it; she kept recalling her life with Gertrude Bergen, and she wondered a little over her grandson’s appearance. “But, then,” she continued, “Gertrude was from Belgium, and swarthy, though fine-looking. Much darker is her grandson, more intense, more buoyant—well, that, too, is natural; it is the French esprit upon the Dutch respectability. His grandfather I remember now—the most careless of mortals, full of fire and fight, and yet amiable—most amiable. We all envied Gertrude a little. He took her to France—to some little town near Paris. How did they get to Louisiana, I wonder?”

Annette was the silent one in this event. She let her grandmother talk. She wanted to hear all about Achille. The man had made a singular impression on her. Many lovers had been at her feet, but she had really loved none of them. Was this strange emotion—more akin to tears than laughter—really love? She told herself that the man was captivating, and that she must be “on guard” whenever he was present. And withal she kept wondering “what he thought of her,” and worrying because she was not dressed to the best advantage.

Perhaps she would not have been quite pleased if she had been truthfully told Mr. St. Ange’s feeling concerning her, for it was one of a perverse admiration, oddly mingled of repulsion and fascination. He had never before seen a woman so startlingly fair, so white—so white and pink—eyes so blue, hair so palely yellow; her beauty struck him as great, but almost uncanny—he wondered if so white a woman was not equally cold. Would she ever warm to love? And then he answered his reflections with a soft utterance: “We shall see! We shall see!”

The dinner party at the judge’s was to be at four o’clock, and the rest of the afternoon was fully occupied in preparing for it. And in this preparation, if Annette had been keeping “guard” over herself, she would have noticed that even already the stranger influenced her. She laid aside the spangled robe and put on a gown of purple cloth trimmed with minever. And she thought, and said, that this change was in deference to her grandmother’s desires; but in reality it came from the feeling that Mr. St. Ange would not be at her uncle’s, and that no one else much mattered. Even if Leonard was present, she felt now that Leonard was a past interest; St. Ange was new and different, and his favour full of all kinds of possibilities.

On arriving at the house on the Bowling Green they found it in a festal state of confusion. The largest parlour had been stripped of all its movable furniture, and the space devoted to a long table, and to chairs for the twenty or more people that were to be seated. It already shone with massive silver and beautiful crystal; while the odours of delicious meats and confections inspired a sense of warmth and comfort, and of good things to come. Blazing fires were in every grate; the numerous silver sconces on the walls, and the scintillating crystal chandelier above the table were all filled with wax candles, which would be lit as soon as the daylight waned a little farther. The judge was in full evening dress, and madame in brocaded ruby velvet, with a string of pearls round her yet beautiful throat. And when Sapphira came into the room Annette was deeply mortified at her own foolishness in dressing so plainly. She felt that she had wounded and humiliated herself for a probability. In a moment of new hope she had let slip the certainties Sappha had embraced. For Sappha, in her rose-sprinkled gown, looked as if she stepped out of the heart of a rose. Her brilliant colour, the sunlike radiancy of her eyes, her glowing gown, made her, indeed, a beauteous apparition, wonderfully sweet and noble. Annette looked at her with an envious surprise. Something had happened to her cousin Sappha; what it was she did not understand, but Sappha had an air of mystery and mastery, unperceived by herself, but rousing in all who knew the girl intimately a questioning wonder. It came from an interior sense of settlement and completeness; Sappha had found him whom her soul loved, and the restlessness, the unconscious seeking and craving of girlhood, was over.

In her desire to somewhat equalise things, Annette gave her cousin a very flowery description of her grandmother’s strange visitor. She described him as the most beautiful, elegant, and graceful of human creatures; and she emphasised very strongly her grandmother’s strong claim upon his affection and attention—“‘a friendship in its third generation,’ he called it, Sappha, and I suppose we shall see a great deal of him. He is to call to-morrow to consult grandmother about his money and his business.”

“Where does he come from?” Sappha asked, but in such a listless way that Annette responded angrily, “It is easy to see you do not care where he comes from. I thought you would feel some interest in such a romantic affair. What are the old men and women who will be here to-night in comparison with such an adorable young man? And how you have dressed yourself for them! Do you imagine they will appreciate, or, perhaps, even notice it?”

“I dressed myself in honour of the day, and for my father and mother’s oldest friends. Here are some of them coming. I must help mother to receive them.”

“I am afraid it is going to be an unlucky and disagreeable night,” sighed Annette to herself, as she stood by the fire watching the rapid arrival of cloaked and hooded guests. As she mused amid the happy sounds of welcome, she noticed a sudden shutting and opening of Sappha’s bright eyes, and an expression of more eager delight on her face. A quick presentiment flashed through Annette’s mind, and she followed her cousin’s glance to the little group advancing. Yes, it was as she expected!—Leonard Murray’s fair head towered in youthful beauty and animation above all the white-haired men and women entering the room with him. Then Annette slipped sweetly past all obstructions, and with a smile said softly to Sappha: “‘I dressed myself in honour of the day, and for my father and mother’s oldest friends!’ Oh, Sappha! Sappha! Is Mr. Murray among their oldest friends?”

Sappha’s face burned, but fortunately there was no time for words. The judge and Peter were seating their guests, and every one was for the moment silent and attentive. Madame, his mother, had the head of the table, and every guest saluted her as they passed to their own seats. And what a goodly company it was! Such sturdy, stalwart men; such rosy-faced, comfortable-looking, handsome women! such good-will and fellow-feeling! such amiable admiration of each other’s dress and appearance! And when the slaves brought in, at shoulder height, the hot savoury dishes, such simultaneous delight to find them the Hollandish delicacies, which now remain to us only in printed descriptions; yes, even to the little saucers of that dear condiment made of pickled and spiced red cabbage, once so welcome and necessary to the Dutch palate. And pray, what mouth once familiar with its savour and flavour and relish could resist the delicately thin, purple strips? Olives were already taking its place at the tables of the high-bred citizens, who loved French fashions and French cooking; but among these old-fashioned, picturesque figures, its antique, homely taste and aspect was surely beautiful and fitting. At any rate, there was no one at Judge Bloommaert’s dinner table who would not have passed by caviare or olives or any other condiment in its favour.