The Belle of Bowling Green
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