The Belle of Bowling Green
“It was a very indiscreet, I may say a very wrong thing to do.”
There was a short, penitential silence, and then Sapphira said:
“Though to-morrow is Sunday, may I go and see Annette early in the
morning? I am sure both grandmother and Annette will like to know about
father’s speech.”
“I can assure you that they know all about it already. Kouba was not
here to wait on your father when he left the house--why? Because he had
gone as fast as possible to his old mistress with the news. Your
grandmother gave him to your father when we were married, but it is only
with his left hand that Kouba has served us. Your grandmother is still
first; he goes to her with all the news of our house; he always has done
so, he always will do so. Nassau Street already knows all--and
more--that happened on the Bowling Green to-day.”
Mrs. Bloommaert was quite correct in her opinion. Kouba had not even
waited to eat his dinner, but had gone at once to “old mistress” with
his own account of the event. And as madame was in her room asleep,
Annette had been made the recipient of his views. She listened and she
understood, without inquiry or dissent, where the information was
truthful and where Kouba was embroidering the occurrence with his
personal opinions. She accepted all apparently with equal faith, and
then told the old man to “go to the kitchen and get his dinner and a
bottle of ‘Sopus beer.”
“What an exciting event!” she exclaimed, “and Kouba is sure that Leonard
Murray was the leader of the crowd. I believe it. It was Leonard I saw
with the Clark boys half an hour ago. I dare say he is staying with
them. I must go and tell grandmother.”
She found madame awake, and quickly gave her Kouba’s news. And it was
really a little comfort to Annette to see her grandmother’s
disappointment. “So sorry am I that I came away,” she said, “for a
great deal I would not have missed that scene, Annette.”
“No, indeed, grandmother! I think it will be very hard to sit here all
evening and not know what is going on; shall we walk over to uncle’s
now?”
“Three hours after lunch? No!”
“Kouba said the Clark boys were in the crowd; suppose I write and ask
Mrs. Clark and Elsie and Sally to take tea with us. Then the men will
come later, and we shall hear whatever there is to hear.”
“The Clarks may not care to come.”
“Yes they will. Let me write and ask them. We do want some one to talk
to, grandmother.”
Permission being at last obtained, Annette wrote one of her nicest notes
and they sent it with a slave woman across the street to the Clarks’
house. Mrs. Clark read it, laughed, and then called her daughter Sally.
“Sally,” she said, “that little minx over the way has found out that
Leonard Murray is here. Answer this invitation as pleasantly as
possible, but tell her we cannot leave our own home to-night, as we have
company.”
“We might ask Annette here, mother.”
“That is what she expects us to do.”
“She is so pretty and cheerful.”
“We will do without her beauty and her cheerfulness to-night.”
“Joe is very fond of her.”
“That is not the question; answer as I have told you.”
But though Sally made the answer as kind as her own kind heart, nothing
atoned to Annette for the fact that her little scheme--though one with a
double aspect--had failed in both directions.
“They cannot come, grandmother, and they do not even ask us over
there--they have company. I know who it is, for I am sure I saw Leonard
Murray with the Clark boys an hour ago. But then----”
“What?”
“Sally is really ugly, and though Elsie has a pretty face, she is as
dowdy as can be.”
“And so much prettier is Annette de Vries--is that what you mean?”
“Yes, that is ‘the because’ of the slight.”
“Of such a thing I would not think. ‘The because’ has nothing to do with
us. And a very sweet girl is Sally Clark. Every one loves her.”
“Don’t scold me, grandmother. I have had already three disappointments.
To-day is very unlucky.”
“Then sit still and let it go by. Take the days as they come to you,
child.”
Annette did not immediately answer. She had gone to the window and was
looking eagerly out. There was a sound of footsteps and of voices in
spirited conversation. Listening and looking, she waited until voices
and footsteps became faint in the distance. Then she turned to her
grandmother with a shrug of satisfaction:
“I was right, as I generally am,” she said. “The Clark boys, with
Leonard Murray, have just gone by. Leonard is their company. What is he
there for? He never used to care for those girls. Before he went to
college ‘from Sapphira to Sapphira was the limit of his way.’”
“Thou foolish one! He is none of thy affair.”
“I do not care a button for Leonard Murray, but I think my cousin
Sapphira does, and--and----”
What other reasons she had were not revealed. She stood at the window
with an air of mortification, which, however, soon turned to one of
pride and triumph; and then she tapped the glass merrily to her
thoughts.
What was the girl dreaming of? Beauty’s conquests? Social power? Love
after her own heart? A marriage which would hand in her millennium?
Alas, for the dreams of youth! Madame watched her in pitying
silence--she knew how they would end.
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.”