“Sappha,” said the judge, “I have heard Mr. Murray singing with you at intervals this afternoon and evening a verse or two that you were setting to a wonderful bit of music. Try it again, my dear.”
“It is _The March of the Men of Moray_, father. Mr. Murray wrote two or three verses to it about the _Macedonia_. Come, Leonard,” and she struck a few ringing chords and looked inspiration into his bending face. Then out rang the little ballad to the marching music of his clan:
What will they say in England, When the story there is told, Of Commodore Decatur, And his sailor men so bold?
They’ll say it was a gallant fight, And fairly lost and won; So honour to the sailor men, By whom the deed was done!
What will they say in England? They’ll say with grateful lip, Now glory to Almighty God, No Frenchman took the ship!
No Frenchman shot her colours down! The doomed ship had this grace-- To take her death blow from the hands Of men of the English race!
And all good honest men and true Will pray for war to cease; And merchant ships go to-and-fro On messages of peace.
And men-of-war sail on the land, And soldiers plough the sea, Ere brothers fight, who ought to dwell In love and unity.
“Thank you, Mr. Murray,” said the judge. “’Tis a stirring melody!”
“’Tis the march of my forefather’s clan, sir.”
“And you have said for America, and for England, what they deserve. We both love fair play; and I am sure both nations know how to take, either a victory or a defeat, like men, and gentlemen. God make honourable peace between us, and that right early!”
To this pious wish the company remaining, departed; but after Leonard had made his long, sweet adieu, Sappha heard her father gently tapping on the table the time of “_The March of the Men of Moray_,” as in pleasant thoughtfulness he hummed to its music,
“They’ll say it was a gallant fight, And fairly lost and won, So honour to the sailor men, By whom the deed was done!”
CHAPTER SIX
_The Miracle of Love_
There had been something more than courtesy in Judge Bloommaert’s attitude to Leonard that New Year’s night, and Sappha was exceedingly happy to notice it. If Leonard would only be careful and conciliating, such favour might be won as would make an acknowledgment of their engagement pleasantly possible. As it was, Sappha was light-hearted and hopeful, for surely now Leonard would wait the natural development of events.
And for a few days the subject was not named; Sappha was busy helping her mother to put in order the numerous household goods and affairs that had been disarranged by the licence of the holidays, and Leonard also had some unusual business, the nature of which he promised to reveal before the week was over. New Year’s Day fell that year on a Friday, and on the Tuesday following it Sappha went to visit her grandmother and cousin. It was a sunshiny, winter day, and the old house on Nassau Street had such an antique, handsome homelikeness, as made far finer dwellings look common and vulgar in comparison with it. Madame sat by the blazing fire writing letters; Annette was marking new towels with the Bloommaert initials; but when she saw Sappha at the gate she put away her work and ran to meet her.
Then there was no more writing, and no more sampler letters; the three women sat down to “talk things over.” And when the _Yule Klap_ presents and the New Year’s feasts had been discussed, they drifted very naturally to the guests and to their dressing and conversation. Madame enjoyed it all, and the morning passed quickly and pleasantly away.
“Grandmother has a secret, Sappha, and I cannot coax it from her,” said Annette. Then she laid her hand upon madame’s, and added: “Now that Sappha is here, do tell us both, grandmother.”
“Until Thursday morning I will not tell you,” she answered. “Do you wish me to break my promise? That is not my way.”
“You promised Achille, eh, grandmother? Oh, I see that I have guessed correctly--you are smiling, grandmother, and you cannot help it--so then, it is something Achille is going to do! Very well, Achille shall tell me. I shall insist upon it.”
They joked, and wondered about “grandmother’s secret,” and ineffectually begged to share it, until dinner was over; then madame went to her room, and the girls dropped the subject at once--they had more interesting matter to discuss.
“Have you seen Leonard since the New Year?” asked Annette. “How delightfully he conducted himself! How charmingly he sang and talked! I do believe that uncle Gerardus was quite impressed by his intelligence. He is very handsome also--does he still make love to you, Sappha?”
“He would not be in the fashion if he omitted the fine words all the young men say nowadays. I might as well ask you if Achille flatters the fair Annette in the same silly way?”
“Do you think it silly? I think it is heavenly sweet, and quite proper. Yes, the dear Achille continually invents new names for me. The ‘fair Annette’ is out of date. I am now his ‘Heart’s Desire!’ I am afraid he is distractingly in love with me.”
“But why do you fear it? Are you not in love with the dear Achille?”
“I fear it, because I am sure that I am life or death to him; and I am not quite sure that I am in love with any one--it is such a responsibility. Are you in love with Leonard?”
“What is the use of being in love, when you cannot marry for nearly three years. I have promised father and mother not to engage myself to any one until after the war.”
“How foolish! Such silly promises ought to be broken--are made to be broken. Does Leonard want to marry you?”
“I wish you would ask him. In so many ways Leonard is inscrutable. He has some business on hand now that he is keeping a secret. I think secrets are in the air. Pray, when will you marry Achille? Or has he not asked you yet?”
“My dear Sappha, he is the most sensitive of mortals. He says love should not be talked about--it makes it common; takes off all the bloom and glory from Cupid’s wings; just as handling the butterfly makes it crushed and shabby. I think he is right. Achille does not need to talk, he says such things with his soft black eyes that perhaps he had better not say with his beautiful red lips. However, his lips are not as prudent as they might be.”
“Oh, Annette! Do you really mean that he has kissed you?--and yet you are not engaged.”
“Suppose it is so! I do not feel a whit the worse for it. I am going to be Mrs. St. Ange. I have made up my mind on that subject.”
“But Achille?”
“That is settled. I intend to marry him. Some people will say I am making a poor match--because, you know, I shall have a great deal of property and money; but I do not intend to listen to any one’s opinion.”
“But Achille has not really asked you to be his wife?”
“That is nothing. He will do so the very hour I am ready to accept him. I put the question off until after the holidays, because one can never tell what might happen at New Year’s.”
“Were you expecting anything to happen?--anything unforeseen, Annette?”
“Well, I thought young Washington Irving might come home at Christmas, and I wanted to see him again. I felt sure you knew that I have been considering him.”
“He loved Matilda Hoffman.”
“I know that, of course. But after she--withdrew, I felt that it might be my office to comfort him. He looked so charming, and so sorrowful.”
“I have not seen him lately,” said Sappha.
“He went to Philadelphia about some magazine he is editing; but I heard that he is coming back to board with Mrs. Ryckman. His great friend, Harry Brevoort, told Achille so. However, I have given Mr. Irving quite up. I don’t think I could take any interest in the Analectic Magazine; though I am sure I cannot imagine what an Analectic Magazine is like. But then, as Achille says, I have no occasion to know such things. I rather think it is something dreadful--it might be a doctor’s magazine. I believe Mr. Irving thought of being a doctor.”
“I certainly believe you would find Achille more agreeable to you than Mr. Irving.”
“Achille is so wonderfully polite. You cannot make him forget his fine manners--and grandmother is very fond of him. She does not like Mr. Irving. She thinks his ‘History of New York,’ a piece of great impertinence--and I wish to please grandmother, for several reasons.”
In such conversation they passed the afternoon, until madame came back to them, Sappha always skilfully parrying Annette’s point blank questions, by others just as direct; and in this way easily leading her cousin to personal subjects of far superior interest to her--that is, her own lovers and love affairs. Just before madame’s tea hour Leonard came. He was in the highest possible spirits, and carried himself as if something very important had happened to him; as, indeed, it had.
He said he had been at the Bowling Green, and found no one at home. Mrs. Bloommaert had gone to drink a cup of tea with Mrs. Jane Renwick, and hear her talk of “poor Robert Burns,” who had sung of her as _The Blue-Eyed Lassie_.