Who has ever written down happiness? and what superfluity of words would describe the good fellowship of the next hour? There was no “hush” on any source of innocent pleasure. With the good food went good wine and good company, and above all, and through all, a good fellowship bounded by the strongest of public and private ties.

And as the more substantial dishes gave place to fruits and confections, the nobler part of the feast took its precedency. The wine was consecrated to patriotism and friendship, in heartfelt toasts; and one of the earliest, and the most enthusiastic, was given to Madame Jonaca Bloommaert. It was a spontaneous innovation, roused by her beautiful old age, and her young enthusiasm, and she was for a moment embarrassed by the unexpected. Only for a moment; then she rose erect as a girl, her face kindling to her emotions, and in a clear voice answered the united salutation:

“My friends, I thank you all. There has been much talk of the Dutch and of the Americans. Well, then, I am a Dutchwoman, and I am an American. Both names are graven on my soul. America is my home, America is my native land, and I would give my own life for her prosperity. But also, Holland is my Vaderland! and my Moederland! I have never seen it, I never shall see it, but what then? When our Vaderland and Moederland is lost to sight, good Dutchmen, and good Dutchwomen, find it in their hearts!” Her thin hands were clasped over her breast, her eyes full of a solemn ecstacy; for that moment she put off the vesture of her years, and stood there, shining in the eternal youth of the soul.

In the midst of feelings not translatable she sat down, and as the little tumult subsided Peter Bloommaert rose, and said:

“My dear grandmother has opened our hearts for the song my brother Chris wrote, the night before he went away. I promised to sing it for him this night, and my friend, Leonard Murray—who has it set to some good music—will help me. It is my business to build, it is my brother Christopher’s business to sail, and to fight, but I say this—and it is the truth—if America, my native land, needs my hands for fighting, the love I bear for my Vaderland will only make me fight the better for my native land.” Then he looked at Leonard, and the two young, vibrant voices, blended Christopher’s “Flag Song” with a stirring strain of catching melody:

The enthusiasm evoked by this Vlaggelied was kept up in toast and story and song until the big clock in the hall struck seven. Then the judge and Colonel Rutgers rose; they were going to speak at a dinner given by the officers of the Third New York State Artillery, and others were going either to the theatre or to Scudder’s Museum, both of which buildings were to be brilliantly illuminated. But a few of the guests would willingly have prolonged the present pleasure, and old Samuel Van Slyck said:

“Well, then, judge, too fast is your clock. There is yet one good half-hour before seven.”

“No, no, Van Slyck,” answered the judge, “a Dutch clock goes always just so; you cannot make it too fast.” And to this national joke the party rose; they rose with a smile that ended in an involuntary sigh and the little laughing stir with which human beings try to hide the breaking up of a happiness.

Cloaked and hooded, the majority went northward up Broadway; but quite a number went eastward to Nassau, Wall, and State streets. In this party were Madame Bloommaert and Annette, their escorts being Peter, and Leonard Murray. They were the last to leave, for they were in no great hurry; so they took leisurely farewells, and some of the women drank a cup of tea standing cloaked in the parlour. In this short postponement Leonard found the moments he had been longing for. Never had Sappha been so entrancing in his eyes, and the radiancy of her beauty had not charmed him more than the graceful generosity with which she had suffered herself to be eclipsed for the honour and pleasures of others. And, oh, how sweet he made the cup of tea he brought her, with such honeyed words of praise! And how proud and happy he was made by her answer.

“If I was fair to you, dear Leonard, I have my perfect wish; for when you are not here, then all the world is nothing.”

They were both happy and excited, and it is little wonder if they betrayed to Annette’s sharp eyes more than they intended. She was spending all her fascinations on her cousin Peter, but while making eyes at cousin Peter was not oblivious of her cousin Sappha. And when the festal hours were quite over and she was alone with her grandmother, she could not avoid giving utterance to her suspicions:

“Grandmother,” she said, putting the tips of her fingers together and resting her chin upon them, “I have an idea.”

“Well, then, what is it?”

“I think Sappha and Leonard Murray are not only in love with each other—I think, also, they are engaged.”

“You talk more nonsense than usual. No one has said a word of that kind to me. Of this family, I am the head, there could be no engagement without my approval. Your uncle and aunt would have told me at once—Sappha also. About engagements, what do you know? Lovers you have, but making love and making a life-long engagement are different things. Sappha is not engaged.”

“Then ’tis a thousand pities, for I am sure she is mortally in love with Leonard.”

“And if he was mortally in love with Sappha, what wonder? More beautiful every day, grows Sapphira Bloommaert.”

“That is because she is in love. ‘Love makes the lover fair,’” and she began to hum the song.

“I have never seen love any change make in you. A new dress might, but—”

“I have never been in love. A new dress is the height of my affection. However, I go back to what I said—I am sure Sappha and Leonard are engaged.”

“Was some one telling you this story?”

“No. I told the story to myself.”

“How did you make it up?”

“I kept my eyes open.”

“Well, what then?”

“I saw that they had that ‘air’ about their slightest intercourse that mere experimental lovers never dare. I mean that sure look that married people have. Watch them and you will see it.”

“Watch, I shall not. See, I shall not. As soon as there is any purpose of marriage for Sapphira Bloommaert, I shall be told of it—told immediately. If I was not, I should never forgive the slight,—never! And your uncle and aunt know it. Can you find nothing pleasanter about the dinner to talk of? It was a dinner to gladden Dutch hearts. I helped your aunt arrange the courses, and I gave her many of my choice receipts for the dishes. No one in New York has such fine Hollandish receipts as I have, except, perhaps, old Peter Bogart, the biscuit maker.”

“I know, grandmother, I never pass his shop at Broadway and Cortlandt Street without going in for some doughnuts. No one can make such good ones; and how far back he looks in his smallclothes and long stockings, his big hat, and knee buckles, and shoe buckles, and sleeve buckles, his powdered hair and his long cue.”

“Yes, Peter Bogart and Mr. and Mrs. Skaats are among the few Dutch who have never changed with changing customs. While moving with the city and the times they have retained their picturesque dress and household life. And in all New York no one is more respected; no one more interesting and lovable than Mr. and Mrs. Skaats.”

“I never saw them!”

“I am sure you have not.”

“Well, then, who are they?”

“Mr. Skaats is custodian of the City Hall, and this delightful old couple often entertain the judges, lawyers, and the councilmen at their dinner table; on which is always found the Hollandish dishes we are so rapidly forgetting. Your uncle occasionally dines with them, and would do so more frequently if his own home was not so convenient. You must ask him to take you to see these dear old Dutch people; or I dare say Sappha knows them. Soon they will only be a pleasant memory.”

“I do not need to go and see the Skaats for a pleasant Dutch memory. There is no finer Dutchwoman in the world than my grandmother, Madame Jonaca Bloommaert.”

Madame was gratified at this compliment, and, perhaps, in order to return the pleasure, or else for the sake of changing the subject, she said: “Mr. St. Ange will be here in the morning—but I do not think it is necessary to warm the best parlour.”

“No, no, grandmother. Our sitting-room is far more distinguished. The best parlour is like a great many parlours; our sitting-room has a character—a most respectable one. I could see that he was impressed by it. I dare say he will soon know Sappha, and of course he will fall in love with her, and then there will be some interest in watching how Leonard Murray will like that.”

“Well, then, keep yourself clear; see, and hear, and say nothing; that is wise.”

“But I like to meddle—a little bit. I wonder if Leonard and Sappha are really engaged! Leonard might have come in and sat an hour with us; I expected so much courtesy from him. But no! though I told him we were so lonely in the evenings, he never offered to spend a little time with us. I dare say he returned at once to the Bowling Green. I saw him say a word or two to Sappha as he left, and she smiled and nodded, and I am very sure he was asking her permission to return.”

“Such nonsense! He would have asked your aunt that question.”

“Oh, the question is nothing! any question meant the same thing. I have no doubt at all, Leonard is at this moment with Sappha. They will be pretending to help aunt Carlita, but then helping her will mean pleasing themselves.”

But for once Annette’s sensibility, though so selfishly acute, was not correct. Leonard did not return to the Bowling Green, and Sappha was disappointed and hurt by his failure to do so. For an hour she sat with her mother before the fire, expecting every moment to hear his footsteps. And this expectation was so intense that she was frequently certain of their approach—his light rapid tread, his way of mounting the steps two at a time—both these sounds were repeated again and again upon her sensitive ear drum, and yet Leonard came not. Alas, what heart-watcher has not been tormented by these spectral promises? for the ears have their phantoms as well as the eyes. At last she reluctantly gave up hope, and as she lit her night candle she said in a tone of affected cheerfulness:

“I suppose Leonard would stay an hour or two with grandmother and Annette.”

“Why should you suppose such a thing? I am sure he never thought of doing so. I dare say he went with Peter to the theatre.”

“Grandmother had a visitor to-day—a grandson of Mrs. Saint-Ange.”

“She told me so.”

“He is very handsome, Annette says.”

“Well, then, he will, perhaps, find work for idle hearts to do. Your grandmother declares Annette shall marry a Dutchman. But when I was a girl French nobles fleeing from Robespierre elbowed one another on Broadway, and they carried off most of the rich and pretty Dutch maidens. A Frenchman is a great temptation; your grandmother will have to guard her determination, or she may be disappointed.”

“Good-night, dear mother. I will help you in the morning to put everything straight.”

“Good-night, and good angels give you good dreams, dear one.”

And as Sappha put down her candle in the dim, lonely room, and hastened her disrobing because of the cold, she could not help wondering where all the enthusiasms of the early evening were gone to—the light, the warmth, the good cheer, the good fellowship, the joy of song, the thrill of love. They had been so vividly present two hours ago, and now they were so vividly absent that the tears came unbidden to her eyes, and she had an overpowering sense of discouragement and defeat. And the sting of this inward depression was Leonard Murray. “He might have come back for an hour! He might have come! and he did not.” Murmuring this sorrowful complaint she went into the land of sleep. And in that world of the soul she met her angel, and was so counselled and strengthened that she awoke with a light heart and with song upon her lips—all her fret and lurking jealousy turned into a frank confidence; all her doubts changed into the happiest hopes. And as every one has, more or less, frequently experienced this marvellous communion, this falling on sleep angry, disappointed, dismayed, and awakening soothed, satisfied, encouraged, there is no need to speculate concerning such a spiritual transformation. Those who have the key to it require no tutor; those who have not the key could not be made to understand.

Sappha simply and cheerfully accepted the change; she was even able to see where she had been unreasonable in her expectations; her whole mood was softened and more generous. She dressed herself and went down, rosy with the cold, and her father found her standing before the blazing fire warming her feet and hands. The windows were white with frost, and a bugle sounded piercingly sweet in the cold, clear air; but the big room was full of comfort and of the promise of a good plentiful meal.

They began to talk at once about the dinner party of the previous evening, and Sappha said: “The best part of the whole affair was grandmother. I think, father, that she looked about twenty years old, when she was speaking. How radiant was her face! How sweet her voice! How proud I am to be her granddaughter!”

And this acknowledgment so pleased the judge that he answered: “I shall never forget her countenance as she lifted her eyes to the flags above the mantlepiece; her glance took in both, with equal affection; the red, white, and blue of the Netherlands, and the Star Spangled Banner which hung by its side. And let me tell you, Sappha, I liked our Christopher’s song, and also I liked the music Mr. Murray wrote for it. One was as good as the other. Here comes mother, and the coffee, and how delicious the meat and bread smell! Mother is always the bringer of good things. Sit here, Sappha, it is warmer than your own place.”

During breakfast the gathering of the previous evening was more fully discussed; and in speaking of madame and Annette Sapphira made mention of Mr. St. Ange, who had visited them. Somewhat to their astonishment the judge said he had heard of the young man through the Livingstons, with whom he had had some business transactions. Mr. Edward Livingston, of New Orleans, had supplied him with introductions to some of the best New York families, and he thought it likely, from what he had been told, that Annette’s description of his beauty and excessive gentility was not more of an exaggeration than Annette’s usual statements.

“You have been told things about him, father. Then he has been in New York more than two days?”

“He has been here about two weeks.”

“Oh! I understood from Annette that he had flown to grandmother’s friendship at once. She spoke as if they were to have the introducing of him to society in New York.”

“Well, then, they can do a great deal for Mr. St. Ange in that way. I fancy he is rather popular already among the Livingston and Clinton set. My mother can give him equally fine introductions among the Dutch aristocracy. I believe him to be a gentleman, and I should think it quite prudent to offer him any courtesy that comes in your way.”

After the judge had left home the two women continued the conversation. Mrs. Bloommaert was certain St. Ange was at least of French parentage. “His name is one of the best names among the nobility of France,” she said. “And if he is truly a French gentleman, you will see of what expression that word ‘gentleman’ is capable. But I wish not that you should meet him through Annette—her airs will be insufferable. I think it possible he may be at the Girauds’ ball to-morrow night. There you would meet him quite naturally. It is strange Josette Giraud did not name him to you when she called last Monday.”

“Josette loves my brother Peter. Peter has her whole heart. There would not be room for the finest French gentleman in the world in it.”

“Josette is a good girl. I wish much that Peter would marry her. But no, Peter thinks only of ships.”

“Oh, you don’t know, mother! Peter talks about ships, but not about girls. All the same he thinks a deal about Josette Giraud.”

“Sometimes I fear Annette. I have seen her! She makes eyes at Peter, she admires him, and lets him see it—and men are so easily captured.”

“But then, Annette does not want to capture Peter. She is only amusing herself. She makes eyes at all good-looking young men. She cannot help it.”

“Your grandmother ought not to allow her to do so.”

“Poor grandmother! She does not know it, or see it. If she did, she could as easily prevent a bird from singing as keep Annette from looking lovely things out of her beautiful eyes. And really, mother, she intends no wrong. How can she help being so pretty and so clever?”

“Peter could have taken them home last night without the assistance of Leonard Murray—and Leonard wanted to stay a while here, but Annette asked him with one of those ‘lovely looks’ to walk with them, and Leonard never once objected.”

“How could he?”

“And this morning she will have no recollection of either Peter or Leonard. She will be busy with the conquest of this Mr. St. Ange.”

“If so, Mr. St. Ange will soon be her captive. I shall think no worse of him for a ready submission. ‘Honour to the vanquished!’ was a favourite device of the knights of the olden times.”

Mrs. Bloommaert was, however, a little out of her calculation. So was Annette. Both had been sure St. Ange would avail himself of the earliest possible hour in which a call could be politely possible; and Annette, somewhat to her grandmother’s amusement, had dressed herself in the fascinating little Dutch costume she had worn at a St. Nicholas festival. She said she had done so because it was so warm and comfortable for a cold morning; and she smoothed the quilted silk petticoat and the cloth jacket down, and made little explanations about them and the vest of white embroidery, which neither deceived madame nor herself. Her fair hair was in two long braids, tied with blue ribbons; her short petticoat revealed her small feet dressed in grey stockings clocked with orange; and high-heeled shoes fastened with silver latchets. She was picturesque and very pretty, and armed from head to feet for conquest. But, alas! St. Ange came not. In fact he was comfortably sleeping while she was watching; and it was not until the middle of the afternoon he made the promised visit. He had been dining at Mr. Grinnel’s the previous evening, and had afterwards gone to the theatre with a large party. And he lamented with an almost womanly plaintiveness the bitter cold, that, for him, spoiled every entertainment. The theatre, he said, was at freezing point; and how the ladies endured the temperature in their evening gowns was to him a marvel. Then he looked round madame’s fine old room with its solid oak, and massive silver, its curtained windows, thick carpet, plentiful bearskin rugs, and huge blazing fire, and said with a happy sigh: “It was the only room fit to live in that he had seen in New York. Handsome rooms! oh, yes, very handsome rooms he had seen, but all cold, killing cold!”

Madame reminded him that New York and Lousiana were in different latitudes; and Annette found him the most cosey chair in the warmest corner, and the general warmth and sympathy was soon effectual. Complaint was changed for admiration, and as the day waned, and the firelight made itself more and more impressive, his conversation lost its business and social character, and became personal and reminiscent.

Madame asked him if he was born in New Orleans, and at the question his eyes flashed like living furnaces filled with flame.

“But no,” he answered. “No, no! I was born in that island that God made like Paradise, and negroes have made like hell. Near the town of Cayes I was born, in a vast stone mansion standing on a terrace and shaded by stately palms. Six terraces led from it to the ocean, and marble steps led from one terrace to another. My father had left France very early in the reign of Louis the Sixteenth, and I have heard that even at that time he had a positive prescience of the horrors of the coming revolution. However, without this incentive he would have made the emigration; for he had fallen heir to immense hereditary estates in Hayti, which had been in the possession of our family from the time of Columbus. Here he cultivated the cane, introducing it himself from the West Indies; and he also exported great quantities of mahogany, and of that beautiful wood which is fragrant in its native forests as the sweetest of roses. There were many slaves on the estate, who lived in a little village of their own, about a mile away from the house. During the awful insurrection of 1791 my father defended his mansion, and as he had great influence with the blacks he was not seriously interfered with; but he was never afterwards happy. He foresaw that the continual fighting between the blacks and the mulattoes must finally drive all white people from the island, and he prepared for this emergency by sending to New Orleans at every opportunity all the money he could spare. In 1803 the long years of continual horrors culminated, and the United States having bought Louisiana, my father resolved to remove there at once. A British frigate was in the harbour of Cayes at the time, and arrangements were made with the captain for our immediate removal. I was then of fourteen years, and I knew only too well the demoniac character of these insurrections. This one also was likely to be especially cruel, owing to the presence of French troops sent by Napoleon to subjugate the blacks. Secretly I assisted my father to carry to the ship the money, jewels, and papers we intended to take with us, but ere this duty was quite accomplished we saw that there was no time to lose. With anxious hearts we watched the ship sail northward, but this movement was only a feint. We knew that about midnight she would return to the appointed place for us.

“Sick with many fears we watched for the setting of the sun. It had been a hot, suffocating day, and every hour of it had indicated a fierce, and still more fierce, gathering of the combatants. Hellish cries, and shouts to the beating of drums, and the wild chanting of the Obeah priests had filled the daylight with unspeakable terrors. But when the sun sank, suddenly a preternatural calm followed. Mysterious lights were seen in the thick woods, howlings and cries, horrible and inhuman, came out of its dense darkness. Abominable sacrifices were being offered to the demon they worshipped, and we knew that as soon as these rites were over indiscriminate slaughter and devilish cruelties would begin. My mother had my little sister in her arms, and I went with her through the forest to the seaside. She reached our meeting place by one exit, I by another; for we were suspiciously watched, and durst not leave the house in a body. My father and my two eldest brothers were to join us by different routes.

“That awful walk! That enchanted walk through the hot, thick forest! I shall never forget it in this life or the next—I shall never forget it! Even the insects were voiceless, and the huge serpents lay prone in spellbound stillness. We had not reached the sea before a terrific thunder storm broke over us. Then the glare and gloom made each other more awful; the black sky was torn by such lightning as you have no conception of; and in the midst of natural terrors no one can describe the blacks held a carnival of outrage and death in every conceivable form of hellish cruelty that Obeah could devise.

“Nearly dead with fatigue and fright my mother reached the little cove where the ship was to meet us, and there we waited in an agony of terror for the arrival of my father and brothers. They came not. And if the ship was noticed lying near we should be discovered. I walked back as far as I durst, looking for any trace of them. My mother lay upon the sand praying. My little sister slept at her side. In that hour childhood left me forever. In that hour I learned how much one may suffer, and yet not die. Daylight began to appear, and the ship was about half a mile from the land. Then I called,—not with the voice I am now using,—but with some far mightier force, ‘Father! Father!’ And at that moment he appeared, pushing his way through the green tangle. And his face was whiter than death, because it was full of horror and agony, which the face of death very rarely is.

“He could not speak. He made motions to me to signal the ship, which I instantly did. It was not many minutes till we saw our signal answered and a little boat coming quickly toward us. But my father quivered with anxiety, and he said, afterwards, they were the most awful moments of his existence. For he knew there was a party of negroes in pursuit, and, indeed, we were just getting into the boat when we heard them crashing through the underwood. My mother had said only two words, ‘August! Victor!’ and my father had answered only, ‘Dead.’ Then the sailors pulled with all their strength to escape the bullets that followed us; but one struck and killed the babe in my mother’s arms, and another fatally wounded a man at one of the oars. He fell, and my father took his place.”

Annette was watching St. Ange like one fascinated; her blue eyes were wide open, her face terror-stricken, her little form all a-tremble. Madame had covered her face, but when Achille ceased speaking she stretched out her hand to him, and for a few moments there was an intense passionful silence. Madame broke it.

“You reached New Orleans safely?”

“It was a hard journey. The captain had taken on a great number of the fugitives, and he waited around the island for two days, rescuing many more who had trusted to the mercy of the sea rather than dare the bloody riot on land; so that we were much overcrowded and soon suffering for food and water. Fever followed, and when we reached New Orleans we were in a pitiable plight. My mother did not recover from this experience. She never asked further about my brothers, and my father would not have told her the truth, if she had asked. ‘They are dead! They died like heroes!’ That was all my father ever told me. It was all that I wished to know.

“On Bayou Têche we bought a plantation, and began again the cultivation of the cane, but mother died visibly, day by day, and within six weeks we buried her under the waving banners of the grey moss that hung so mournfully from the live oaks, that January morning. As to my father, he was never again the same. He had been a very joyous man, but he smiled no more, and he fretted continually over the loss of his family and his beautiful home in Hayti. For some years we were all in all to each other, and he laboured hard to bring our new plantation into a fine condition. Then he, too, left me, and the place was hateful in my sight. I wished to escape forever from the sight of negroes. I feared them, even in my sleep. Had not those who had shared our food, and games, and constant society slain with fiendish delight my poor brothers and my only sister? I was acquainted with Mr. Edward Livingston, a lawyer in New Orleans, and who himself had married a beautiful refugee from the great Haitian insurrection, and he advised me not to sell my plantation, as in view of the war I could not get its value. I would not listen to him—a simpler life with the black cloud removed seemed to me the only thing I desired. But no, I have not here escaped it. What shall I do?”

“The blacks in New York are mostly free, and they are comparatively few in number,” said madame.

“Few in number—that is some security. But now, I must tell you, that this summer, on the very night that there was a great volcanic eruption from the burning heart of St. Vincent, there was another massacre. Amid the roaring darkness, the intolerable heat, the rain of ashes, the stench of sulphur, and the stygian horror of the heavens and the earth, the blacks,

[Illustration: “THE CAPTAIN ... WAITED AROUND THE ISLAND FOR TWO DAYS, RESCUING MANY MORE WHO HAD TRUSTED TO THE MERCY OF THE SEA.”]

made frantic by their terror, and led by the priests of Obeah, fell upon the whites indiscriminately. They fled to the ships in the harbour—to the sea—anywhere, anywhere, from those huge animal natures whose eyes were flaming with rage, and whose souls were without pity. Nearly one hundred of these fugitives finally reached Norfolk and Virginia. Some had been warned either by their own souls, or by friends, and had money and jewels with them; others were quite destitute; many were sick, and their condition was pitiable. All desired to reach the French settlements in Louisiana, but transit by water was most uncertain, nearly all the usual shipping being employed in the more congenial business of privateering. Then, in the midst of their distress, comes into port one day Captain Christopher Bloommaert. He had with him a fine English frigate, the prize of his skill and valour. And when he understood the case of these poor souls, he called his men together and proposed to them the God-like voyage of carrying the miserables to New Orleans. ‘’Tis but a little way out of our purposed course,’ he said, ‘and who knows on what tack good fortune may meet us?’ And the men answered with a shout of ready assent, and so they finally reached New Orleans. I saw them land. Many of them were old friends of my family, and I heard such stories from their lips as make men mad. One old planter, who had money with him, bought my estate, and took those with him to its shelter who had neither money nor friends. Their kindness to each other was wonderful. As for me, I hastened away from scenes that had cast a pall over all my life. Yet I forget not; to forget would be an impossible mercy.”

Then madame talked comfortably to the young man, and after a while tea was brought in, and Annette, grave and silent for once, made it; and quietly watched, and listened, and served. St. Ange liked her better in this mood. The other Annette, with her little coquetries, had not pleased him half so well. When he left she understood that she had gained favour in his eyes; he kissed her hand with an enthralling grace and respect—or, at least, Annette found it so. And that night, though she felt certain Leonard Murray was singing the new songs with Sappha, she told herself that she “did not care if he was. Achille was twice as interesting; he was, indeed, a romantic, a tragic hero—and very nearly a lover. And he was so captivating, so unusually handsome!” She went over the rather long list of young men with whom she was friendly, and positively assured herself that all were commonplace compared with this wonderful Achille. And, to be sure, his small but elegant figure, his pale passionate face, set in those straight black locks, his caressing voice, his subtle smile, his gentle pressure of the hand—all these charms were not the prominent ones of the practical, business-like young men with whom she was most familiar.

After St. Ange’s departure madame sat silent for some time, and Annette watched her with a strange speculation in her mind—did people really keep their emotions fresh when they were three-score and ten years old? Her grandmother had seemed to feel all that she had felt. Her hands, her feet, her whole figure had revealed strong sensation, her eyes been tender with sympathy and keen with anger; her interest had never flagged. In passionate sensibility had twenty years no superiority over seventy years? Patience, Annette! Time will tell you the secret. Oh, the soul keeps its youth!

She considered this question, however, until it wearied her, and then she asked abruptly: “Grandmother, of what are you dreaming?”

“Mr. St. Ange. I was recalling the day on which his grandfather carried off to France pretty Gertrude Bergen. She went to France and died in Haiti, and now her grandson is driven back by events he cannot control to New York.”

“Where he will probably marry some other pretty Dutch maiden.”

“And small heed we take of such things; we even count them of chance; yet, how often that which flowers to-day grows from very old roots.”

“Grandmother, I want two new dresses. Can I have them?”

“Stuffs of every kind are very dear, Annette.”

“Only two, grandmother.”

“And Madame Lafarge’s charges for making dresses are extravagant—the making is the worst.”

“It has to be done, grandmother.”

“Yes—but if you will turn to your Bible, Annette, you will find that the woman whose ‘price was above rubies’ made her own dresses.”[1]

“Indeed, grandmother, you need only glance at any picture of a Bible woman to see that. Dresses without shape, without style—and as for the fit!” And Annette could only explain the enormity of the fit by throwing up her hands in expressive silence.

“If you get the dresses, then a new bonnet will be wanted.”

“Yes, a bonnet would be a necessity; also some of those sweet furs that come from South America—so soft and grey are they. Oh, the ugliest woman looks pretty in them!”

“You are extortionate, Annette.”

“Grandmother, I have not yet asked for a grand piano.”

Then madame laughed. And Annette laid her soft cheek against madame and kissed her good-night. But though she walked delicately and almost on tip-toes to her own room, there was an air of triumph in the poise of her pretty head. She set the candle down by the mirror and looked complaisantly at herself.

“I shall get what I want,” she said softly. “I always do.”

CHAPTER FIVE

A Chain of Causes

Considering these things, Annette’s request for two new gowns was a modest one; yet so many women were just then acquiring new gowns that it was with difficulty she succeeded in getting hers ready for Christmas Day. Achille had helped her to select her ball dress, and it was so lovely that she felt no fear of being on this occasion eclipsed by Sappha’s gayer garments. That Achille had been consulted in its selection need not imply more than a rather intimate friendship; for the young man had become a familiar friend of a great many families. His sad history, his unusual beauty and grace, his many social accomplishments, and his faultless manners and dress, had given him almost by acclamation a very prominent position in the fashionable circles of New York. The Dutch claimed him on his mother’s side, the French on his father’s, and New Yorkers on the ground that he had of choice elected to become a citizen of New York. No gathering was considered complete without his presence; the most select clubs sought his association; and among those men who loved fine horses and skilful fencing, he was acknowledged an incomparable judge and master.

But though he accepted this homage, he did not seek it; nor did it seem to afford him much pleasure. Those most familiar with his habits knew that he very much preferred the society of the Friendly Club, which met in the parlour of Dr. Smith’s house in Pine Street. Here, with young Washington Irving, Charles Brockden Brown, and other literary and learned men, he passed the hours that pleased him most. Nor was this his only social peculiarity. He formed a close friendship with the exile Aguste Louis de Singeron, the most famous pastry cook and confectioner in New York; also an ex-courtier and ex-warrior of Louis the Sixteenth: a little man of the most undaunted spirit, chivalrous and courteous, at once the most polite and the most passionate of men. Every day St. Ange might be found sitting in De Singeron’s neat little shop on William Street. Sometimes their conversation seemed to be sufficient for their entertainment; sometimes a chess board lay on the narrow counter between them. Fine ladies passed in and out, but St. Ange was never disturbed by their advent; and if a game was in progress no smiling invitation allured him to leave it unfinished. It will be seen then, that in spite of his gentle air and suave manners, he had a will sufficiently strong to insure him his own way.

His intercourse with the two Bloommaert families was, however, the most important of all his life’s engagements. With other families he had frequent, but casual and intermittent, meetings; he was at the close of this year in one or other of the Bloommaert households every day. With Madame Jonaca he had formed a most affectionate alliance; he asked her counsel, and followed it; he told her all the pleasant news of that society which she still loved; he took her frequently out in his sleigh that she might see any unusual parade of the troops or militia; he brought her all the newspapers, and delighted himself and madame—as well as Annette—by reading aloud the numerous passages he had marked in them, as likely to interest both women. He came in when he was cold, to be warmed in Madame’s cosey parlour; when he was lonely he went there for company; when he was sad for comfort.

In the Bowling Green home he had a footing quite as sure, though on a different foundation. In this family it was the judge who favoured him above all others. If St. Ange came into the room his face brightened, he put aside the paper or pamphlet he was reading, and turned to the young man for conversation. He went with him to Dr. Smith’s Club, and said it was the only sensible club he had ever visited. If the day was mild the two men took a brisk walk together on the Battery, and talked politics or science, and sometimes law, if the judge was engaged with any very interesting case; and if all these sources of intercourse were too few, out came the chess board, and in silent moves and monosyllabled conversation the evening passed away.

His relations with Mrs. Bloommaert and Sappha were equally friendly and familiar. Very early in his visits to the Bowling Green house he had assured himself that the lovely Sappha had no heart to give—that she was entirely devoted to his friend Leonard Murray. This conviction had at first given him a pang, for not only Sappha’s beauty, but her beautiful disposition, had moved him to an admiration he had never before felt; and he had told himself that to win such an angel for his wife, with the entry into such a perfect home, and the alliance of characters so lovable as Judge Bloommaert and Sappha’s mother, would be as much of heaven on earth as any man could hope to receive.

For a week he had nursed this charming illusion, then something happened—a look, a movement, a passing touch or whisper—one, or all of these things opened his eyes; he felt convinced that Leonard had some certain right that he could not honourably infringe upon—and honour was the first, the dominating, sentiment that moved Achille’s thoughts and words and deeds. All was not fair in love to Achille St. Ange; so he deliberately put down his love for Sappha; denied it perpetually to his craving heart; and taught himself to look upon her as his friend’s beloved and his own friend and sister.

As a general thing Leonard understood this, though there had never been a word uttered between them regarding Sappha. Leonard was immersed in business of various kinds, but he quickly satisfied himself that he had nothing to fear from St. Ange’s admiration of Sappha. The three were often together in the evenings, and nearly as often Annette made the fourth. Music, conversation, occasionally an informal cotillion, reading aloud, or recitations passed the happy hours, while the judge listened, watched, corrected, or advised, and Mrs. Bloommaert moved through all their entertainments, smiling the blessing of innocent happiness upon them.

The first shadow on this charming companionship fell about Christmas. It came in the form of a suspicion, not of Sappha’s love, but of the judge’s simple good-will. He had never pretended any friendship for Leonard, but during the past month he had treated him with a civility that left no cause for offence. Suddenly one evening Leonard became possessed with the idea that the judge’s demonstrative liking for St. Ange was not as real as it appeared; that, in fact, it was a liking affected in a great measure for the purpose of making him feel the real indifference of his own treatment. He could hardly tell what circumstance had evoked this suspicion, but when he began to ponder the idea it grew to undreamed of proportions. He sat up nearly all night, busy with this profitless and miserable consideration, and memory brought him one proof after another to pillar his suspicion. And the conclusion of the matter was that Sappha’s father wished her to marry St. Ange, and that in such case, even if the war was over before three years had passed, it would be in the power of the judge to forbid their marriage, as Sappha would not be of age for nearly three years. Then, when Sappha was of age, would she marry him without her father’s consent? It was doubtful. Then again, might not three years more of antagonism, showing itself in every little daily household event or pleasure, wear out the tenderest, truest love? In this restless, suspicious temper he told himself that it was almost certain to do so. The fate of love is, that it always sees too little or too much. All true lovers have this madness, this enchantment, where the reason seems bound. For in love there is no prudence that can help a man, no reason that can assist him, and none that he would have. He prefers the madness which convinces him his love is more than common love. Let vulgar love know moderation, he loves out of all reason, and finds his wretchedness pleasing.

Now jealousy is only good when she torments herself, and Leonard, sitting up and losing sleep to indulge her, deserved the restless pain which he evoked. It troubled him so effectually the following day that he found it difficult to perform the work he had so enthusiastically undertaken—that of assisting in the decorations at the City Hall for the great naval ball to be given to the officers of the war frigates in New York on New Year’s Eve. He was impatient for night to come; then he would go to Judge Bloommaert’s again and take good heed of every look and word, and so resolve the question that so much troubled him.

Well, we generally get the evil we expect, and so Leonard was not disappointed. There had been, as it happened, a slightly ruffled conversation during the evening meal, about an invitation just received from St. Ange. He had taken a box at the Park Theatre, and Madame Bloommaert had promised to go under his escort to see the final representation of the capture of the Macedonian by the United States. There was to be also a patriotic sketch and a farce called “Right and Wrong.” The polite little note added that there was plenty of room in the box for the judge and for Mrs. and Miss Bloommaert, and begged them to accept its convenience.

The judge said “he would not go.” He furthermore said, “he did not like his mother being seen so much with that young Frenchman; people would make remarks about it.”

“Gerardus!”

“Just as if she had no son, or grandson, to take her to see things.”

“You never do take her anywhere but to church, Gerardus; and as for Peter, I do not suppose he ever remembers her; he trusts to you and you to him. I am sure St. Ange has given her a great deal of pleasure that she would not have had from you or Peter.”

“I do not approve of Christmas kept in theatres and such places. What would your father say, Carlita, about going to the theatre on Christmas night? We have always kept Christmas at church, and as a religious festival.”

“This is a different Christmas. It is a patriotic festival, as well as a religious one, this year. Mother naturally wants to see the sailors and the battle transparency, and hear the songs and feel the throbbing of the great heart of the city. You ought to go with her.”

“Who taught you to say ‘ought’ to me, Carlita?”

“My heart and my conscience.”

“Well, if you get behind your conscience, I am dumb. Go with mother—if you wish.”

“No. Mr. St. Ange goes with her. You must go with Sappha and I, or——”

“I am busy. I cannot go.”

“I am sorry. I must ask Leonard Murray then.”

“Oh, what diplomats women are! I suppose I must go, but I do wish Mr. St. Ange would be less attentive to my family.”

“He may yet be more so. Annette considers herself as——”

“There, there, wife! Don’t say it, and then you will not have to unsay it.”

This refusal to listen to Annette’s considerations put a stop to the discussion. The judge took a book of travels and affected to be lost in its matter and marvels, and Mrs. Bloommaert found it impossible to get him to resume the conversation and finish it with more satisfactory decision. Finally she said: “I do wish, Gerardus, you would talk to us a little. There are many things I want to ask you about.”

“Not to-night, Carlita.”

“Of course we are going to the naval ball, and preparations specially for it must be made. Why do you not answer me, Gerardus?”

“My dear Carlita, no husband ever repented of having held his tongue. I am in no mood to talk to-night.”

“You promised Sappha that pearl necklace.”

“Hum-m-m!”

“And I cannot lend her mine, as I shall want to wear it.”

There was no answer, but then silence answers much; and Mrs. Bloommaert, considering her husband’s face, felt that she had begun to win. He was evidently pondering the position, for he was not reading. During this critical pause Leonard Murray entered. He was aware at once of the constrained atmosphere, and with the egotism of jealousy he attributed it to his sudden appearance. For once he was really de trop. He interrupted an important decision, and Mrs. Bloommaert was annoyed. Under cover of his entry, and the slight commotion it caused, the judge resumed his reading. “I must ask your indulgence, Mr. Murray,” he said politely, “but I am just now accompanying Mr. James Bruce in search of the sources of the Nile; and it is not easy to live between Egypt and the Bowling Green.”

Leonard said he understood, and would be sorry to interrupt a mental trip so much to Judge Bloommaert’s taste. But he did not understand—not at all. He was mortified at his reception, and he had not that domestic instinct which would have taught him that the constraint he felt was of a family nature and did not include him. In his present sensitive, jealous mood he believed the judge was reading because he preferred reading to his society—that Mrs. Bloommaert was silent and restless because, in some way, he had interfered; and that Sappha’s shy, abortive efforts to restore a cheerful, confidential feeling were colder and more perfunctory than he had ever before seen them.

In this latter estimate he was partly correct. Sappha was as eager and anxious about the visit to the theatre and the naval ball as it was natural a girl of eighteen years old should be, and Leonard had interrupted discussion at a critical point; had put off settlements about dresses and various other important items—and besides this fault had brought into the room with him an atmosphere very different from his usual light-hearted mood, explaining itself by interesting political or social news. For once he was quite absorbed in Leonard Murray, and then nobody seemed to care about Leonard Murray. Mrs. Bloommaert asked him questions about the decorations, and Sappha about the people who were assisting with them, and he simply answered, without adding any of his usual amusing commentaries.

In a short time Mrs. Bloommaert left the room, and as the judge appeared to be lost in the sources of the Nile Leonard was practically alone with Sappha. He first asked her to practise some songs with him, but she answered, “The parlour is unwarmed and unlighted, Leonard, and I do not want to take cold, just when the holidays are here.”

“Certainly not,” he said, but the refusal was a fresh offence. Why had Sappha not ordered fire and light to be put in the parlour? She usually did. Something was interesting her more than his probable visit—what could it be? Not the theatre—not the naval ball. Sappha was used to such affairs; he had never known them put the whole house out of temper before. For by this time he had decided the atmosphere was one of bad temper, without considering for a moment that it was possibly his own bad temper.

Suddenly he rose and said he must go; and no one asked him to remain longer. Sappha felt the constraint of her father’s presence, and did not accompany him to the hall. Mrs. Bloommaert was opening and shutting drawers and doors upstairs, and the judge only gave to his “Good-night, judge,” a civil equivalent in “Good-night, Mr. Murray.” As he was leaving the house he saw Mr. St. Ange approaching it, and instead of advancing to meet him he turned southward towards Stone Street. Of this cowardly step he was soon ashamed, and he went back and forced himself to pass the Bloommaert house. It had a more happy aspect. Some one had stirred the logs, and the dancing flames showed through the dropped white shades. There was a movement also in the room; the sound of voices, and once he could have sworn he heard Sappha laugh. Did he not know her laugh among a thousand? It was like the tinkle of a little bell.

For at least a quarter of an hour he tormented himself with the pictures his imagination drew of what was passing behind that illuminated screen. Then he went gloomily to his room and sat down with jealousy, and began to count up his suspicions. A miserable companion is jealousy! And a miserable tale of wrongs she gave him to reckon up. But at least he reached one truth in that unhappy occupation—it was, that the engagement between Sappha and himself ought to be immediately made public. All their little misunderstandings, all his humiliations, had come through their relationship being kept secret. He felt that he was missing much of the pleasure of his wooing; certainly he was deprived of the éclat that it ought to have brought him. It was all wrong! All wrong! And it must be put right at once. He promised himself he would see to that necessity the first thing he did in the morning.

With this promise his insurgent heart suffered him to sleep a little, yet sleep did him no good. He awoke with the same consuming fever of resentment. He could not eat, nor yet drink; he had no use for anything but thought: jealous thought, with that eternal hurry of the soul that will not suffer rest—thoughts of love and sorrow, starting in every direction from his unhappy heart, to find out some hope, and meeting only suspicion, anger, and despair. It was his first experience of that egotistical malady,