The Belle of Bowling Green
indifference of age has, to its impatience, the very spirit of cruelty.
About noon Mrs. Bloommaert came into the room. She had a letter in her
hand, and there was a singular expression of discomposure both on her
countenance and in the fretful way in which she held the missive in her
outstretched hand.
“Sappha,” she said, “here comes news indeed! Your grandmother has
written to tell us that last night Achille St. Ange asked Annette to
marry him. And of course Annette accepted the offer,” commented
Annette’s aunt. “Your grandmother seems delighted with the match.”
“They will suit each other very well, mother. I am sure they will be
happy. I must go and congratulate Annette.”
“Not to-day. They both went, early this morning, with the news, to
grandfather De Vries, and of course that is a day’s visit.”
“As he is the guardian of her estate, Annette would have to ask him for
money; for she will now want a great deal of it. I am glad she is going
to marry Achille; she has loved him ever since they met.”
“Annette loves Annette first and best of all. But she has plenty of
sense, and she knows that a girl of twenty-one has no chances to throw
away.”
“Annette looks about seventeen, mother, and she has more lovers than I
ever had.”
“That is because you allowed every one to see your preference for
Leonard Murray. Besides, what you say is not so. In spite of your
partiality, no girl in New York has more admirers than Sapphira
Bloommaert.”
“I prefer Leonard to all I ever had, or might have had.”
“Yes. I know. Very foolish, too! Your father does not like him; he will
never give a willing consent to your marriage with him--and girls ought
to marry before they are Annette’s age. In fact, I have thought her a
little old-maidish for a year past.”
“Oh, mother! Now you are joking----”
“Too affected--too full of pouts, and shrugs and pirouettes; things very
pretty when a girl is fifteen or sixteen, but quite old-maidish airs at
twenty-one.”
“Mother, Annette never looked more than seventeen, and she is not quite
twenty-one.”
“I think she looks every day of her age. She is more than two years
older than you; and two years, when a girl is in her teens, is a great
deal. Well, well, I thought you would have been married first.”
“If father and you were willing, I could be married at once. Leonard
would be glad; but----”
“Oh, yes! we all know how soon ‘but’ comes; _but_, you want your own
way; _but_, father wants his way; _but_----”
“Mother wants her way also.”
“No, no! Mother is willing for any way that works for others’
happiness--and Leonard is well enough, only things seem always to go
contrary for him and you.”
“Dear mother, somebody once said the course of true love never did run
smooth. Leonard loves me truly--for myself only. He is rich, and I am
not rich. He could marry any girl he desires in New York, but he loves
me. Is not that worth counting in his favour?”
“I never said different, Sappha.”
“Annette is very rich; Leonard could have married Annette.”
“I have no doubt of it. I should not wonder if Mr. St. Ange knows the
exact amount of her fortune. Frenchmen are not indifferent to a fortune
in their brides. I know that. It is a national custom to consider it.
St. Ange will have a difficult interview with old De Vries! I would like
very much to be present. De Vries will fight every dollar diverted from
Annette’s control. Oh, yes! he will fight them, cent by cent.”
“Mother, dear, I do not think Achille has given Annette’s money a
moment’s consideration. I do believe he loves her sincerely. He did not
wish to love her. He fought the feeling for a long time; both Annette
and I knew it, and Annette has often laughed at the way he held out. But
she always said, when we spoke of the subject, ‘He is not invincible,
some day he will surrender.’ I want to tell her how glad I am.”
“You cannot do so to-day. It is evident they intended a long visit, for
your grandmother says in a postscript, ‘Tell Sappha to come very early
in the morning. I want particularly to see her.’”
Here the conversation was interrupted by a violent ringing of the
judge’s bedroom bell; and the echo of a demanding voice whose tenor
could not be mistaken. Mrs. Bloommaert threw her mother-in-law’s letter
toward Sappha, and answered the summons at once; and Sappha lifted the
letter and carefully re-read it.
MY DEAR GERARDUS AND CARLITA:
I have to announce to you the engagement of Annette to my friend
Achille St. Ange. I am pleased with Annette’s choice, and her
marriage will probably take place on her next birthday, the seventh
day of June, on which day, as you know, she comes of age. I wish no
objections to be made. Annette has pleased herself, and done well
to herself, and what more can be expected?
Your affectionate mother,
JONACA BLOMMAERT.
P. S.--Tell Sappha I wish to see her very early in the morning. I
have a pleasant piece of news for her.
All through that dreary day this letter lay in Sappha’s work-basket. It
seemed almost to have life, and to talk to her; and when her mother came
to drink a cup of tea, she was glad to give her back the intimate,
insinuating bit of script. Mrs. Bloommaert held it a moment, and then
locked it in the judge’s desk. “I don’t want to see it again,” she said,
“but if I burn it, your father will be sure to consider it important
enough to keep. Can you imagine what news your grandmother has to tell
you?”
“No. There was considerable jesting about a secret yesterday, but it did
not strike me as important. It most likely relates in some way to
Annette’s marriage.”
“That is hardly possible; Annette did not say a word of her engagement
to you yesterday?”
“Oh, but grandmother would not permit her to speak until she herself had
announced it. Grandmother is particular about such things. Still, I do
not think they were engaged when I left there last night. Achille did
not look, or act, like an engaged man; and Annette would have told the
secret in twenty ways without uttering a word. I should certainly have
seen it. No, the offer was made after I left. Achille was in a very
sensitive mood. However, Annette will tell me everything to-morrow.”
In the morning she obeyed her grandmother’s request, and went to Nassau
Street very early. She told herself as she walked rapidly through the
frosty air that there would likely be some little change in Annette.
“There always is,” she mused; “as soon as a girl is engaged something
takes place--I wonder what it is.” The first symptom of this change met
Sappha at once. Annette did not run to meet her as usual, and though
quite as demonstrative, there was a little air of superiority, of
settlement, of some subtile accession, that was indefinable, and yet
both positive and practical. She was dressed with great care, and in
high spirits; and madame shared obviously in all her anticipations.
Sappha was indeed astonished at her grandmother’s appearance and excited
mood. Annette answered Sappha’s congratulations with a kiss and a smile
only; but madame expressed her pleasure frankly. She was already
planning Annette’s wedding and Annette’s home. Suddenly she recollected
herself, and said, “Well, then, have you remembered the secret I
promised to tell you this morning, Sappha?”
“Is not Annette’s good fortune the secret, grandmother?”
“No. Listen to me. I am going to the theatre to-night! You do not
believe me? I assure you it is true. And you, and Annette, and Achille
go with me. Achille has been making all preparations for my comfort; and
I am sure to have a very happy evening. But it would not be happy,
unless you and Annette shared it. Now you must return home, and send
here the dress you are going to wear; and then you will spend the day
with me. It is to be my gala day. I shall wear my velvet gown, and I am
as happy as a little girl. A great evening it will be, and I intend to
share all its gladness, and all its enthusiasms. And as Annette has been
so kind and clever as to add her happiness to mine, it is a spring-tide
of good luck. I consider myself a very fortunate woman.”
“Dear grandmother, my father is suffering very much. Will it be kind and
right for me to be at the theatre while he is in such distress?”
“Your father will drink Portugal wine, and then of course he suffers,
and makes your mother and every one else miserable. He has the gout;
well, you know what that means. I am sorry that he drinks wine, when he
ought to drink water; but what he invites he must entertain. I am sorry
also, that your mother cannot go with us; she has not drunk Portugal
wine, and yet she has the deprivation. Yes, for your mother I am sorry.
But as for stopping from the theatre to think about pre-arranged
suffering, I shall not do it--and there is no obligation on you to
deprive yourself of this night’s pleasure. If I can go with a good
conscience, you may safely go with me.”
She had talked herself into a tone of self-defence, and Sappha perceived
that it would be unwise to say more. Also, she was very eager for the
promised entertainment, and wonderfully delighted at the idea of her
grandmother’s pleasant vagary.
“Why, grandmother!” she answered, “it will be part of the performance to
see Madame Jonaca Bloommaert present. You will make quite a sensation,
and when I am an old woman I shall talk about the night I went with
grandmother to the Park Theatre.”
Then she drew the lovely girl to her side and kissed her, and after a
little discussion about the dress to be worn, urged her to go home and
procure it. Also, she sent by Sappha certain messages to her son
Gerardus, which Mrs. Bloommaert, upon consideration, positively refused
to deliver.
“Your father is paying dearly for drinking a glass or two of wine,” she
answered, “and it is none of God’s way to worry, as well as punish. And
I will not tell him over again what he has been told so often; there is
nothing so aggravating. What are you going to wear?”
“Mother dear, ought I to go? There is father--and there is Leonard----”
“I forgot! Leonard called here, while you were away.”
“Oh, dear! What did you say to him, mother?”
“I could not see him. I was just giving your father his breakfast. He
slept late this morning, and----”
“Then what message did you send?”
“I sent him word you were out, and told him it was impossible to accept
his kind offer. Of course I made the refusal in as agreeable words as
possible.”
“Did you tell him I had gone to Nassau Street?”
“I forget--I suppose I did. It was Kouba who opened the door. Kouba
would be sure to tell him.”
Then Sappha went to her room, packed the clothing she desired, and sent
it to Nassau Street by Kouba. On being questioned, he could not
remember whether he had told Mr. Murray to go to Nassau Street or
not--thought maybe he had. “Master Murray mighty dissatisfied like,” he
added, and then he looked curiously in Sappha’s face.
“You are to take this parcel to Nassau Street, Kouba; and when you come
back here you will find a letter for Mr. Murray on the piano; you will
then go and find Mr. Murray, and give him the letter.”
The writing of this letter was a difficult task to Sappha. She felt the
cruelty of Leonard’s position very much--his offer to her family had
been early and most generous; yet it was impossible for her father and
mother to accept it, and equally impossible for her to accept it alone.
The disappointment to his own plans Leonard would doubtless take as
cheerfully as possible; but what would he say to her going with Achille?
For he might not see Madame Bloommaert’s claim on her granddaughter in