“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 remembered the hour, though Leonard was charming, and the tale he was telling her, wonderful. “But then,” she said, “mother is expecting us, and those at home must not be disappointed; for if there is anything grandmother likes, it is to watch the dance.” So they went back to the Bloommaert house and found all ready and waiting for the cotillion. Upstairs with fleetest steps went the merry maidens, returning in less than ten minutes without their spencers, and with feet shod in satin sandals. The fiddles were twanging, and the prompter already advising gentlemen to choose their partners. Then the room became a living joy. The hearts of all beat with the twinkling steps of the dancers, and every one seized a measure of fleeting bliss, and for a breathing space in life forgot that they would ever grow weary or ever have to part.
Madame sat in her son’s chair, flushed and smiling, her eyes wandering between her granddaughters. They were certainly the most beautiful women in the room, and when the judge came quietly to her side about ten o’clock she said to him: “Look once at Annette; at her feet are half the men; and as for Sapphira, I know not what to make of her--all of the men are her lovers, but some one was telling me it is Leonard Murray only that pleases her. I take leave to say they are a handsome couple, Gerardus.”
Involuntarily he followed his mother’s direction, and was forced to admit the truth of her remark. But it gave him an angry pain to do so, while the young man’s expression of rapturous satisfaction provoked him beyond words. He had Sapphira’s hand, they were treading a measure--not so much to the music of the violins as to the music in their own hearts. They had forgotten the limitations of life, they were in some rarer and diviner atmosphere. Step to step, with clasped hands, and eyes beaming into each other’s face, they glided past him as if they were immortals moving to spheral music.
But beautiful as this vision of primal joy was, it roused no response in Judge Bloommaert’s heart, and after a few words with madame he slipped away to the quiet of his room. He was wakeful and restless, and he lifted the papers in a case which had some personal interest for him, and soon became absorbed in their details. Yet he was aware of that inevitable decrease of mirth which follows its climax, and not ill-pleased to hear the breaking up of the gathering. The chattering of the girls resuming their spencers and walking shoes made him lay down his papers and go to the open window, and so he watched the dissolution of happiness; for the company parted, even at his own door, into small groups, some merely crossing to the other side of the Green, others going to Wall, State, Cedar, and Nassau streets. The later party seemed the larger contingent, and he heard the men of it, as they passed northward, begin to sing, “We be Three Poor Mariners.” Christopher’s voice rang out musically cheerful, and the father’s heart swelled with love and pride, as he said tenderly, “God bless the boy.” The prayer was an exorcism; anger and all evil fled at the words of blessing, so that when Mrs. Bloommaert, flushed and weary, came to him he was able to meet her with the sympathy she needed.
“Gerardus, my dear one,” she said, “Chris bade me good-bye; I am sure of it. He laid his cheek against mine and whispered, ‘A short farewell, mother!’ and all I could say was ‘God bless you, Chris!’”
“It was enough.”
“When does he sail?”
“About four o’clock in the morning. He will go out on the tide-top, then.”
“Where is he going?”
“To the Connecticut coast first, for supplies; easier got there than here; afterwards he goes nobody knows where, but as the Domine said last Sunday, he can’t go where God is not.”
“In that I trust. Did you notice the blue ribbon in his jacket?”
“Yes, I noticed.”
“He seemed very fond of Mary to-night. I could not help seeing his devotion. Mother noticed it, also.”
“What did mother say?”
“She said Mary was a good girl, of good stock, but she had not a dollar. I said, ‘love was everything in marriage, and that money did not much matter.’”
“Hum--m--! It does no harm.”
Then there was a short silence; madame was removing her lace cap and collar, and the judge putting away his papers. Both were thinking of the same thing, and neither of them cared to introduce the subject. But the judge’s patience was the better trained, and he calmly waited for the question he was sure would not be long delayed.
She rose as she asked it, went to her dressing table, and began to open her jewel box. “Did you notice Sapphira and Leonard Murray dancing? I thought I saw you watching them.”
“Yes, I saw them, and to tell you just what I thought of the exhibition would only pain you, Carlita. Don’t ask me.”
“I am sure I don’t know why I am not to ask you; every one was charmed with their grace. Even the elegant Mr. Washington Irving said their movements were ‘the poetry of motion.’ I thought it a very fine remark.”
“Well, I suppose Mr. Washington Irving knows all about the poetry of motion. But if you will believe me, Carlita, there are some Dutchman in New York who do not worship Mr. Washington Irving.”
Then there was another silence, and this time the judge broke it. “Carlita,” he said, “what are you going all around the square to ask me? Speak out, wife.”
“Well, Gerardus, any one can see that Leonard Murray is in love with Sapphira, and that Sapphira is not indifferent to him. I want to ask you if this marriage would be suitable, because if you are against it, their intimacy ought to be checked at once.”