CHAPTER FOUR

_Introduces Mr. Achille St. Ange_

On the afternoon of November the twenty-fifth Annette was sitting with her grandmother in the comfortable, large living room which the elder woman loved. Outside the day was extraordinarily beautiful for the season. The sky was nearly cloudless, the balmy air had just that snap of early frost which made it exhilarating, and there was not a breath of wind. The tall, straight Michaelmas daisies stood radiantly still in their late purple glory; the golden marigolds glowed at their feet; every twig, and every blade of grass might have been cut out of stone. It was a speechless, motionless, spell-bound garden, lit up with a flood of winter sunshine.

Madame had her knitting in her hand, but she was not busy with it; her gaze was fixed upon Annette, who was fastening more carefully the silver spangles on a gown of blue gauze. “Madame Duval barely catches them,” she said plaintively, “and I suppose there will be dancing to-night.”

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

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

“Oh, my child, my years it made me count. So well I remember the first Evacuation Day parade. General Washington and the victorious army led it. Then I wept because your grandfather was not among living heroes--to-day I did not weep--so soon we shall meet again.” A sound of distant music arrested speech, and they listened in silence till it died away. Then Annette said: “There are to be so many public dinners, and the theatre is to be brilliantly illuminated. Oh, grandmother, I wish you would let me go with the Westervelt party to the theatre. What excitement there will be there! What cheering and singing and fine

## acting! and at uncle’s!--well, you know what uncle’s Evacuation dinners

are--ten or twelve old men who were in his company will be there; and they will tell the same stories, and sing the same songs, and pay the ladies the same compliments. I would like to go to the theatre.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“_Mr. Achille St. Ange._”

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

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

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

“Yes, madame.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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:

O Flag of the Netherlands, are not our hearts All flagbearers sacred to thee? To our song, and our shout, O banner fly out! Fly out o’er the land and the sea! Unfold thee, unfold thee, invincible flag, Remember thy brave, younger years, When men crying ‘Freedom!’ died underneath thee, ’Mid storming and clashing of spears. Flag of Fidelity! Piety, Courage! Thy Blue, White, and Red We salute!

Thou art blue as the skies, and red as the dawn, Thou art white as the noonday light; Fidelity gave thee her beautiful blue, And Piety bound thee in white. Then Faith and Fidelity went to the field Where the blood of thy heroes was shed; And there, where the sword was the breath of the Lord, They gave thee thy ribbon of red. Flag of Fidelity! Piety! Courage! Thy Blue, White, and Red We salute!

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.”