The Belle of Bowling Green

care, even if they turn a wedding into a funeral.” “Such words are not right, nor even true. I care for Sapphira’s welfare above everything.” “Speak to mother; I wish you would. She will not refuse Leonard if he asks her for Annette. And Annette is already in love with him, I am not deceived in that. She was white with envy and jealousy to-night.” “Is Annette in it?” “Yes, and very much so, I think.” “Then I give up the case. No man can rule right against three or four women. I am going to sleep now, and I hope it may be a long time before I hear Leonard Murray’s name again.” His hope had but a short existence. When he entered the breakfast room the following morning, the first thing he saw was Sapphira bending over a basket of green rushes, running over with white rosebuds. She turned to him a face full of delight. “See, father,” she cried. “Are they not lovely? Are they not sweet? If you kiss me, you will get their dew upon my lips.” He bent his head down to the fragrant flowers, and then asked: “Where did you get them so early in the morning?” “Leonard Murray sent them. Let me pin this bud on the lapel of your coat.” “No,” he said bitterly, pushing the white hand and the white flower away. “Go to your room, and take the flowers with you. I will not have them in any place where I can see them.” Then a negro boy entering, he turned to him, and ordered his breakfast in a tone and manner that admitted of no delay nor dispute. Sapphira had lifted her basket, but as soon as they were alone she asked: “Did you mean those unkind words, father?” “Every one of them.” He shuffled his coffee cup, let the sugar tongs fall, and then rang the bell in a passion. Yet he did not escape the pathetic look of astonished and wounded love in Sapphira’s eyes as she left the room, with the basket of rosebuds clasped to her breast. All day this vision haunted him. He wished to go home long before the usual hour, but that would have been a kind of submission. He said he had a headache, but it was really a heartache that distressed him, and during a large part of the day he was debating within himself how such an unhappy position had managed to subjugate him in so short a period of time. For, if any one a week previously had told him he could be controlled in all his tenderest feelings by a dislike apparently so unreasonable, he would have scoffed the idea away. He said frequently to himself the word “unreasonable,” for that was the troublesome, exasperating sting of the temptation. The young man himself had done nothing that any fair or rational person would consider offensive--quite the contrary; and yet he was conscious of an antagonism that was something more than mere dislike--something, indeed, that might easily become hatred. He had just admitted the word “hatred” to his consciousness as he reached the entrance of the Government House. The day had at last worn itself away, wearily enough, to the dinner hour. He might now go home and face whatever trouble he had evoked. “Good-afternoon, Mr. Justice.” He turned, and the light of a sudden idea flashed into his face, when he saw the man who had accosted him. “Good-afternoon to you, Mr. Attorney Willis. I am just thinking about that case you defended a few days ago--the case of the man Gavazzio. A strange one, rather.” “A very strange case. He stabbed a man for no reason whatever; simply said he hated him, and seemed to think that feeling justification enough.” “See the Italian consul about him. I do not think he had broken any Italian law--that is, there are unwritten laws among these people, of a force quite as strong as the written code. We must take that fact into consideration with the sentence. The stabbed man is recovering, I hear?” “Oh, yes; I will see the consul, as you desire it. Gavazzio most certainly thought we were interfering in his private affairs by arresting him.” “I have no doubt of it. Well, Mr. Attorney, the law is supreme, but we must not forget that the essence of the law is justice. Good-day, sir.” This incident, so spontaneous and so unconsidered, gave him a sense of satisfaction; he felt better for it, though he did not ask himself why, nor wherefore, in the matter. As he approached his home he saw Sapphira sitting at the window, her head bent over the work she was doing. She heard her father’s step, she knew he was watching her, but she did not lift her eyes, or give him the smile he expected. And when he entered the room she preserved the same attitude. He lifted a newspaper and began to read it; the servants brought in the dinner, and Mrs. Bloommaert also came and took her place at the table. She was not the usual Carlita at all, and the judge had a very depressing meal. As for Sapphira, she did not speak, unless in answer to some direct question regarding her food. She was pale and wretched-looking, and her eyes were red with weeping. The judge ate his roast duck, and glanced at the two patient, silent, provoking women. They were making him miserable, and spoiling his food,--and he liked roast duck,--yet he did not know how to accuse them. Apparently they were perfectly innocent women, but unseen by mortal eyes they had the husband and father’s heart in their little white hands, and were cruelly wounding it. When dinner was over Sapphira lifted her work and went to her room, and Mrs. Bloommaert, instead of sitting down for her usual chat with her husband while he smoked his pipe, walked restlessly about, putting silver and crystal away, and making a great pretence of being exceedingly interested in her investigations. He watched her silently until she was about to leave the room, then he said a little peremptorily, “Carlita, where are you going? What, by heaven and earth, is the matter with you!” “You know what is the matter, Gerardus.” “I suppose the trouble is--Leonard Murray again. Confound the man!” “Mr. Justice, you will please remember I am present. I think you behaved very unkindly to Sapphira this morning--and the poor little one has had such an unhappy day! my heart bleeds for her.” “Well, Carlita, I was too harsh, I will admit that; but I cannot tell Sapphira that I was wrong. It was all said and done in a moment--the sight of the flowers, and her joy in them----” “I know, Gerardus. I must confess to the same temper. When I came downstairs, and found you had gone without your proper breakfast, and that you had neither come upstairs to bid me good-bye, nor yet left any message for me, I was troubled. And I had a headache, and had to go to Sapphira’s room to get her to come to the table, and the sight of her crying over those tiresome rosebuds made me angry; and I said more and worse than you did. I told her she ought to be ashamed to put her father out for any strange man; and that the fuss she was making over Leonard Murray was unmaidenly; and that the young man himself was far too free and demonstrative--oh, you know, Gerardus, what disagreeable things a fretful mother has the liberty to say to her child! And then, as if all this was not enough, Annette came in about eleven o’clock, and I told her Sapphira was not well, but she would go to her. And, of course, the first things she noticed were the white roses and Sapphira’s trouble, and the little minx put two and two together in a moment. What do you think she said, Gerardus?” “Pitied Sapphira, I suppose.” “She clapped her hands and cried out, ‘Oh, you also got roses! White ones! Mine were pink--such lovely pink rosebuds! My colour is pink, you know.’ And Sapphira answered, ‘I thought it was blue,’ but Annette dropped the subject at once and began to rave about Sapphira’s swollen face and red eyes, and offered her a score of remedies--and so on. Sapphira could only suffer. You know she would have died rather than express either curiosity or annoyance. So, then, having given Sapphira the third and cruelest blow, she went tripping away, telling her ‘to sleep, and not to dream of the handsome Leonard.’ I generally go to Sapphira after a visit from Annette, and when I went to the poor child’s room she was sobbing as if her heart would break. She told me what Annette said, and cried the more, because she had been scolded both by you and me, and all for nothing.” “Poor little one!” “Yes, indeed, Gerardus. These young hearts suffer. We have forgotten how little things seemed so great and so hard in our teens; but every heart is a fresh heart, and made that it may suffer, I think.” “I do not believe Annette got a basket of pink roses. I do not like Murray, but I think there are things he would not do. I saw a letter too--at the bottom of the basket. Oh, I do not believe Annette!” “That is so. I told Sapphira it was a lie--oh, yes, I will say the word straight out, for I do think it was a lie. But she is a clever girl. She took in all sides of the question as quick as lightning. She knew they were from Leonard, and that there had been trouble, and she knew Sappha would never name pink roses to Leonard. She was safe enough in Sappha’s pride, for, though she gave a positive impression that Leonard had sent her a basket of pink roses, she never said it was Leonard. If brought to examination, she would have pretended astonishment at Sapphira’s inference, modestly refused the donor’s name, and very likely added ‘indeed, it was only a little jealousy, dearest Sapphira, that caused you to misunderstand me.’ You see, I have known Annette all her life. She always manages to put Sapphira in the wrong; and at the same time look so sweetly innocent herself.” “What is to be done in this unhappy affair, Carlita? Sit here beside me, wife, and tell me. For you are a wise, kind woman, and you love us all.” “God knows, Gerardus! I have been thinking, thinking, thinking, through the livelong day, and what I say is this--let those things alone that you cannot manage. Because you cannot manage them, they make you angry; and you lose your self-respect, and then you lose your temper, and then, there is, God knows, what other loss of love and life and happiness. My father used to say--and my father was a good man, Gerardus.” “No better man ever lived than father Duprey.” “Well, then, he always said that birth, marriage, and death were God’s part; and that marriage was the most so of all these three great events. For birth only gives the soul into the parent’s charge for perhaps twenty years; and then all the rest of life is in the charge of the husband. As for death, then, it is God Himself that takes the charge. Let the young ones come and go; they may be fulfilling His will and way--if we enquire after His will and way.” “But if Murray speaks to me for Sapphira, what then?” “There is the war. Tell him marriage is impossible until peace comes. War time is beset with the unexpected. In love affairs, time is everything. Speak fairly and kindly, and put off.” “Very good, Carlita. But if I should discover any reason why the marriage should not be, this time plan is not the thing. If a love affair ought to be broken off, it ought to be done at once--and if there should be any truth in those pink roses!” “Well, Gerardus, if you are expecting trouble, you may leave Annette to make it. But my opinion is that Sapphira ought to be trusted. If you believe that God gave her into our charge for her sweet childhood and girlhood, can you not trust Him to order her wifehood and motherhood; and even in old age, to carry her and direct her way? If He foresaw her parents, also, He foresaw her husband. Are you not interfering too soon, and too much? After all, what can we do against destiny?” “You are right, Carlita. Go now and comfort the poor child a little. You know what to say--both for yourself and for me.”