The Belle of Bowling Green

the light of an affectionate command and compliance; and then he would be jealous again--and then--and then? Sappha felt bewildered, until she recollected Annette’s engagement. That circumstance would certainly define Achille’s position and prevent any ill-will. “And I told him in my letter about it, so then it is all right.” Thus she reasoned herself into a satisfied mood; and when she returned to her grandmother’s and cousin’s company she could not help catching the joyous expectancy of the situation. And very soon Achille came in, and it was prettily amusing to watch the behaviour of the newly betrothed. It seemed as if they now found all the world a delightful mystery, a secret between themselves only. Such reliance, such hope, such expectation, had suddenly sprung up between them that there was a constant necessity for little confidences and unshared understandings. However, nothing could be more beautiful than the manner in which Achille treated madame. He consulted her about all the evening’s arrangements, and gave her an affection and respect, which she returned with that charming kindness that is the innocent coquetry of old age. It was finally agreed that Achille should come for them soon after five o’clock. The usual hour for opening the theatre was six, but Achille said the crowd on the streets was already very embarrassing and difficult to manage. All afternoon there was a growing sense of something unusual and paramountly exciting--that undistinguishable murmur born of human struggle and exulting gladness. The three women dressed to it, and were all ready for their refreshing cup of tea at half-past four o’clock. Both girls had tacitly agreed that madame was to be the heroine of the occasion. Both assisted in her toilet, and escorted her downstairs like maids of honour. And certainly it would have been hard to find a woman of more distinguished appearance. Her gown of black velvet, though not in the mode, was in _her_ mode, and suited her to perfection. White satin and fine lace made the stomacher, and her white hair was shaded by lace and by a little velvet hood turned back with white satin. Her face had a pretty pink flush, and she was very quiet during the last half hour of waiting. “There were no theatres when I was a girl,” she said softly. “Would you believe, my dears, that I have never been in a theatre, never seen a play? I wonder me, what your grandfather Bloommaert would say?” “He would be glad to have you go, of course,” answered Sappha. “Why, grandmother, you ought to go to-night. It is not the play you are going to see, it is something grander.” She smiled, and Annette said, “I hear a carriage coming. Grandmother, how do I look?” “You are both pretty enough. It is a great satisfaction to see you dressed alike.” Then Achille entered, and hurried them a little. He said the immense crowd would render their progress very slow; but no one cared much for the delay. The crowd was orderly and full of enthusiasm. Scudder’s Museum, all public places, and private houses were brilliantly illuminated; there was a sound of music everywhere, and the crowd itself continually burst into irrepressible patriotic song. It was nearly six when they succeeded in reaching the theatre, and madame’s heart thrilled very much as a child’s would have done when she entered what seemed to her a fairy palace. For the whole front of the theatre was a brilliant transparency representing the engagement of the frigates _United States_ and _Macedonian_. The Star Spangled Banner met their eyes on all sides, and to its inspiring music they entered the box Achille had provided. Most of the boxes were already filled to their utmost capacity; and in the gallery there was not space enough left for the foot of a little child. But the pit was empty, and to it every eye was turned. Almost immediately the tumultuously joyful cheering outside announced some important arrival. The orchestra struck up, with amazing dash and spirit, _Yankee Doodle_, and three hearty cheers answered the music as four hundred sailors from the war frigates entered. The crowd inside rose to greet them; cheer followed cheer, until women and men both sobbed with emotion. Then the gunner with his speaking trumpet took his stand in the centre of the pit, in order to command silence if necessary, and the boatswain with his silver call stood next him, to second his commands. And four hundred sailors in their blue jackets, scarlet vests, and glazed hats, all alive with patriotism and excited with victory, made a remarkable audience. They had just come from a dinner given them by the city at the City Hotel, and were exceedingly jovial, and perhaps the big gunner and the boatswain standing up in their midst were not amiss as guides and masters of ceremonies, for when Decatur shortly afterwards entered the box provided for him they rose at the sight of their commodore as one man, and gave twelve such cheers as only four hundred proud and happy sailors could give; every man standing on tiptoe and flourishing his glazed hat in that saucy, dauntless way that is peculiar to sailors. And whoever heard those repeated huzzas, with the silver whistle of the boatswain shrilling through them, heard music of humanity that they never in life forgot. Madame wept silently and unconsciously, Sappha sat with gleaming eyes still and white with emotion, Annette clapped her hands and leaned on Achille for support. The very atmosphere of the house was tremulous and electric, and men and women said and did things of which they were quite unconscious. And wild as the excitement was, it continued during the whole performance; the play, the scenes, the transparencies and dances being chosen and arranged for the purpose of calling out the naval spirit of the audience and of doing homage to the American sailor, who was deservedly at that hour the hope of the country and the idol of the people. When the wonderful evening was over the sailors left the theatre in perfect order, and preceded by their own band of music marched to their landing at New Slip; and while this exit was transpiring, so many people visited Madame Bloommaert that she may be said to have held a ten minutes’ royal reception in her box. And though the beautiful old woman with her beaming face and rich dark drapery was in herself a picture worth looking at, her charm was greatly increased by the lovely girls who stood on either side of her--both of them dressed alike in pale blue camblet gowns and spencers of the then rare chinchilla fur, so soft, so delicately grey, so inconstestably becoming. “I have had four hours of perfect happiness,” said madame, as she lay at last among her pillows, with her hands clasped upon her breast, “of perfect happiness! Think of that, children! Four hours of perfect happiness!” Annette said eagerly, “I too, grandmother, I too have been perfectly happy.” But Sappha did not speak, she bent her head and kissed madame, and fussed a little about her night posset, and her pillows, and the rush light, and so managed to evade any notice of a silence which might have been construed adversely. For indeed Sappha had not been perfectly happy. She had rejoiced with those that rejoiced, but in her heart there was a sense of failure. Leonard had not sought her out, and she had been unable to gain any recognition from him. For a short time he was in the Clarks’ box, and she watched for some sign that he was aware of her presence; but the sign did not come, and long before the entertainment was over he had disappeared. “He is jealous again,” she thought with a sigh. And really it appeared as if, in this crisis, he had some cause for offence. His offer to accompany Sappha and her family had been refused, and Sappha was with Achille. He had not even been asked to join Achille’s party, and as for the judge’s gout--every one knew he was subject to the complaint. He thought Mrs. Bloommaert might have left him for three or four hours; he told himself that she would have done so if Sappha had asked her with sufficient persuasion. It angered him to see the girl he loved and whose troth he held, in the company of Achille St. Ange. For he was not yet aware of Achille’s engagement to Annette, the letter which Sappha sent by Kouba not having reached him. For Kouba had thought far more of enjoying the excitement of the streets than of finding Mr. Murray, and the only effort he made in that direction was to finally leave the letter at the City Hotel, where he was told Mr. Murray was dining. So this tremulous fear of having wounded her lover was dropped into Sappha’s cup of pleasure, and clouded and dimmed its perfection. Its very uncertainty was fretsome; there was nothing tangible to put aside; it affected her as a drop of ink infects a glass of pure water--it cannot be definitely pointed out, but it has spoiled the water. The only certain feeling was a regret, which lay like a slant shadow over her heart and life. She was glad when the morning came. She wished to go home, and be alone a little. Annette’s selfish joy, though effusively good-tempered, was not pleasant, and it struck Sappha in that hour that there are times when good breeding is better than good temper. On arriving at the Bowling Green she interviewed Kouba at once. But Kouba had his tale ready. He assured Sappha that he had found Mr. Murray eating his dinner at the City Hotel, and that a white man had promised to send the letter right away to him, “And I saw him do it,” he added, with a reckless disregard for facts. If this was the case, then Leonard knew of the engagement between Annette and Achille, and she could not imagine why her lover had so obviously ignored her. But for a time it was necessary to put this question out of her mind. She had to describe the previous evening’s proceedings to her father and mother, and then it was dinner time--and Leonard had not come. She was utterly miserable, and under the plea of a headache went to her room. It was impossible for her to talk any longer of those things that did not concern her. She wanted to think of her lover, and if possible discover what course was the best to take. “Oh, if father had not been ill just at this time!” she sighed, “we might have been all so happy together last night! Why did father’s attack come on the very day both mother and I wanted him to be well? Oh, how unfortunate!” And Sappha’s lament was quite true--the unfortunate thing usually happens at the unfortunate time, for a malign fate never does things by half. So the girl wept, and told herself that she was sorry she had gone to the theatre at all, and that whenever she tried to be kind to others and to forget herself she was always sorry. She declared Leonard had a right to be offended. He had been badly treated, and his desire to have their engagement made public was a wise and honourable one for both of them. Perhaps her arguments were all wrong, but then the human relations are built on feeling, not on reason or knowledge. And feeling is not an exact science; like all spiritual qualities, it has the vagueness of greatness about it. However, youth is happy in this respect--it can weep. Sorrow finds an outlet by the eyes; when we grow older it sinks inward and drowns the heart. So Sappha wept her grief away, and was sitting in a kind of dismal, hopeless stillness when Leonard came. They met and embraced speechlessly, and it was evident that Leonard also had been suffering. But in little confidences and mutual explanations all suspicions and fears passed away, and their love was nourished and cherished by the tears with which they watered it. And in this interview they came to the conclusion that their engagement must be publicly