CHAPTER TWO

_The Spring of Life_

To the roll of the drum and the shrill call of the fife the days went in a manner that was far from being disagreeable to the youthful population of New York. They enjoyed the thrill of a fear that was mingled with much excitement; and for a short period almost a license of political and patriotic temper prevailed. But to the more responsible citizens the news of war was far from welcome; so unwelcome, indeed, that only a few days before its proclamation, two petitions had been presented to the Senate signed by three hundred and ten citizens of New York, and by nearly all of the largest mercantile houses, praying that the embargo might be continued, “because they believed it would produce all the benefits of war without its calamities.” Mr. Justice Bloommaert had been one of the signers of this petition, and when he recovered the equipoise of his usually calm nature, he was astonished and a little annoyed at the precipitancy with which he had publicly changed his opinions. It was in a measure unaccountable, and he searched all the outlying posts of his inmost soul to see where the weak point had been. It was not his wife’s sarcasms or his daughter’s more pronounced sympathy--he was used to their wordy warfare, and he was sure that no persuasive force in their armoury would have driven him to the ill-advised hastiness of his unpremeditated speech on the Bowling Green.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Has she not told you?”

“No. She says you are to tell me.”

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

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

“Father!”

“Gerardus, I am astonished at you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did grandmother say?” asked Sapphira.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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.”