The Belle of Bowling Green
“Has she not told you?”
“No. She says you are to tell me.”
“Well, then, it is very pleasant to her, and to me. Leonard Murray came
here this morning just after you left. He had hoped to find you still at
home--and he wanted us to select the uniform for his company. They are
to fight under our colours, you see! He had many patterns of cloth with
him, and we chose dark blue for the coats, and orange for the vest, and
the head dress is to be dark blue cap with a rosette and streamers of
red, white, and blue! The tricolour, my dear one--that was for my
nation, and the blue and orange, that was for yours. Leonard was
delighted. He is going to pay for the uniforms and support the company
until the city puts it in active service. Then it will fight under our
colours. Was it not kind and respectful of Leonard?”
“It was a piece of damned impertinence. I never heard of such
impudence!”
“Father!”
“Gerardus, I am astonished at you!”
“The insolent puppy! What right had he? How dare he?”
“Mr. Justice, he only did what every young man of standing has done: the
Clarksons, the Fairlies, the Westervelts, the Moores--every family of
consideration has given its colours to some company or other. It is an
honour, Mr. Justice, a great honour, and we are very proud of it. I told
Leonard so.”
“Leonard, indeed! It seems that you are already very familiar.”
“Already! It is a long already. I have known the boy from the hour of
his birth. His mother was my friend when we were both little girls. I
was with his mother when she died. I promised her to be kind to Leonard
whenever I had opportunity--the opportunity came this morning--I
thought you would be pleased--and proud--but then, one never knows a
man’s real feelings--never! After last Saturday, too--it is
inconceivable.” Mrs. Bloommaert rose, and as her daughter followed her
the judge was left alone with whatever answer he intended to make.
Generally, when an antagonist withdraws, the party left in possession of
the ground feels a sense of victory. He tosses his head a little and
triumphs in the fashion that best suits him. But Judge Bloommaert,
standing with his doubled-up hand on his dining table, had a sinking
sense of defeat. His large, dignified personality succumbed as the two
slender slips of womanhood passed him--Carlita’s haughty little head
expressing a disdainful disapproval, and Sapphira giving him a look from
eyes full of reproachful astonishment.
A natural instinct led him to sit down in order to consider his ways.
“What the deuce!” he exclaimed. “Confound the fellow! What does it all
mean?” Then his logical mind began to reflect, to deliberate, to weigh
his own case as relentlessly as if it was the case of a stranger. The
result was a decision in favour of his wife’s and his daughter’s
position. From their standpoint he had been unreasonable and
inconsistent. And he could put in no demurrer; for the only objection he
was able to make lay in that covert dislike to the young man for which
he was unable to give any reason that would not be more humiliating than
simple submission.
He had reached this point when a negro slave, dressed from head to foot
in spotless white linen, entered the room. He was carrying a platter
containing a sirloin of roast beef, and the appetising odour, blended
with the fragrance of the fresh peas,--boiled with the sprig of mint
they call for,--stimulated the judge to the necessary action. He rose
promptly and went to the sitting room in the rear. At the door he heard
Sapphira and her mother talking, but they were instantly silent as he
entered. That was a symptom he did not regard. He knew the tactics that
were always successful, and with a smile and a courtly bow he offered
his arm to Mrs. Bloommaert. The courtesy was made invincible by the
glance that accompanied it--a glance that was explanation, apology, and
admiration sent swiftly and indisputably to her heart. Words would have
been halting and impotent in comparison, and they were ignored. The only
ones spoken referred to the waiting meal. “Dinner is served, Carlita,”
and Carlita, with an answering glance of pardon and affection, proudly
took the arm offered her. Ere they reached the door Sapphira was
remembered, and her father stretched backward his hand for her clasp.
Thus they entered the dining room together, and almost at the same
moment they were joined by Christopher.
He was hot and sunburned but full of quiet satisfaction. He laid his arm
across his mother’s neck as he passed her, and taking a seat next to his
sister clasped her little hand lovingly under the table.
With beaming eyes she acknowledged this token of his affection, and
then touching a piece of pale blue ribbon tied through a buttonhole of
his jacket, she asked:
“Pray, Chris, who is now your patron saint? Last year it was good St.
Nicholas, and orange was all your cry. Why have you forsaken your old
patron and changed your colours?”
Chris laughed a little. “I was caught unaware, Sapphira,” he answered.
“As I came up Cedar Street I saw Mary Selwyn cutting roses in Mr.
Webster’s garden. She had a rose at her throat, and a rose in her hair,
and a basket of roses in her hand, and she was as sweet and as pretty as
any rose that ever bloomed in all New York. And she said ‘Good-morning,
Captain Bloommaert; I hear you are soon for the ocean, and the enemy,
and God be with you!’ And I said, ‘So soon now, Miss Selwyn, that this
must be our good-bye, I think.’ Then she lifted her scissors and cut
from the ribbon round her neck the piece I am wearing. ‘It is the full
half,’ she said, ‘and I will keep the other half till you come home
again happy and glorious.’”
“Well, then, it is your luck ribbon, Chris, and you must not change it,”
said Sapphira.
“In a very few minutes I was under great temptation to do so, Sapphira.
I thought I would call on grandmother, but as I got near to her house I
saw Walter Havens just leaving the gate. He was walking very proudly,
and a flutter of red ribbon was on his head, and the next step showed me
a flutter of white skirts behind the vines on the veranda. So I knew
cousin Annette had been setting him up till he felt as if he had twenty
hearts instead of only one.”
“Did you speak to Annette after that observation?” asked his father.
“Why yes, sir. She saw me at once, and came running to open the gate.
She had all her airs and graces about her and looked as radiant as the
red ribbons she wore. She saw my blue ribbon immediately, and said
scornfully, ‘Pray now, whose favour is that affair tied in your
buttonhole? It is a poor thing, Chris! Shall I not give you an inch or
two of my solitaire?’ and she lifted the housewife at her belt, and
would have taken out her scissors. But I said, ‘No, no, Miss de Vries,
I’m not taking shares with Walter Havens. I’ll just hold on to my ‘poor
thing.’ I wonder how many rose ribbons you have given away this
morning?”
“Did she tell you how many, Chris?” asked Mrs. Bloommaert.
“She looked as if she might have given a hundred, but she kept her
secret--you may trust Annette to keep anything that belongs to her--even
her secrets; and most women give them away. Annette de Vries knows
better.”
“What did grandmother say?” asked Sapphira.
“I did not see her. She was in her room, asleep, Annette said. They are
coming here this evening--with the Clarks, and perhaps others. You won’t
mind, mother, will you?”
“Indeed I shall be glad, if you wish it, Chris.” For her heart had
comprehended that his “good-bye” to Miss Selwyn meant that he was ready
for sea. And it was Christopher’s habit to slip away on some night, or
early morning tide, when there was no one around to embarrass his
orders. For he was not a man that either liked or needed the approbation
and sympathies of others; as a rule, Christopher Bloommaert’s approval
was sufficient for him.
He was evidently full of business, and went away as soon as he had
finished his dinner. The judge went with him, and Mrs. Bloommaert and
her daughter, left alone, began instantly to discuss the subject of
Christopher’s departure.
“It is his way,” said Mrs. Bloommaert. “The little party this evening is
his farewell. We must make it as pleasant as possible. Your grandmother
and Annette will be here, I suppose?”
“And the Clarks--Elsie and Sally, and Joe and Jack--and I suppose
Leonard Murray will come with them,” answered Sapphira.
“I should not wonder if Chris asked Miss Selwyn also.”
“Very likely. She is a nice girl. I hope Chris did ask her. No one can
help loving Mary Selwyn.”
“What shall we do? What would Chris like best? You know, Sapphira, if
any one knows.”
“Let us have tea at six o’clock, then we can all go to the Battery to
hear the music. There is a young moon, and it is warm enough to make the
sea breezes welcome. Moffat’s Military Band is to play from the portico
of the flagstaff to-night, and we can have ices and cakes and wine
served to us in the enclosure if we want them.”
“You had better return home about nine o’clock, and I will have
refreshments here ready for you. The large parlour can be somewhat
cleared, Bose will bring his violin, and you might have a little dance.
I don’t believe father will mind. He knows Chris is ready to sail. I
could see that.”
“Oh, mother! Oh, dear mother, how good you are!”
The preparations for this rather impromptu gathering gave Mrs.
Bloommaert very little trouble. Her servants were slaves, born in her
own household, and whose share in all the family joy was certain and
admitted. They entered heartily into the necessary arrangements, and in
a short time the house had put on that air of festal confusion which the
prospect of feasting and dancing entails.
Before six the guests began to arrive, and the eight or ten which
Christopher’s speech had suggested speedily became twenty. It appeared
as if the young man had casually invited all of his acquaintances. But
Mrs. Bloommaert made every one welcome, and the slight difficulty in
seating them--the little crush and crowding--really induced a very
spontaneous and unconstrained happiness. Then there was trouble in
serving all rapidly enough, so Christopher, and Joe Westervelt and
Willis Clark volunteered their services, and to these three Mrs.
Bloommaert herself added Leonard Murray, whom she appointed her special
aid; and thus the tea became a kind of parlour picnic. The windows were
all open, the white curtains swaying gently in the breeze, and the
scent of roses everywhere mingled with the delightful aromas of fine
tea, and spiced bread, and fresh, ripe strawberries. Merry talk and
happy laughter thrilled the warm air, and it was a joy in itself to
watch so many bright, young faces, all keenly responsive to the pleasure
of each other’s presence.
Before seven o’clock they were ready for their walk on the Battery, and
came trooping down the wide stairway, a brilliant company of lovely
girls in their spencers of various coloured silks, and their pink or
white frocks, their gipsy straw bonnets, and their low walking shoes
fastened with silver or paste latchets. In twos and threes they
sauntered along the lovely walk, and as the young moon rose, the band
played sweetly from a boat on the water, and the waves broke gently
against the wall of the embankment, their laughter and merry talk became
lower and quieter. They rested on the benches, and made little
confidences, and were very happy, though their joy was lulled and
hushed, as if for this rare hour some friendly spirit had pressed gently
down the soft pedal on life, and thus made its felicity more enchanting
and more personal.
But if they forget the dance, their little feet had memories; they began
to twitch and slip in and out, and grow restless; and Sapphira