Part 14

When the wonderful evening was over the sailors left the theatre in perfect order, and preceded by their own band of music marched to their landing at New Slip; and while this exit was transpiring, so many people visited Madame Bloommaert that she may be said to have held a ten minutes’ royal reception in her box. And though the beautiful old woman with her beaming face and rich dark drapery was in herself a picture worth looking at, her charm was greatly increased by the lovely girls who stood on either side of her—both of them dressed alike in pale blue camblet gowns and spencers of the then rare chinchilla fur, so soft, so delicately grey, so inconstestably becoming.

“I have had four hours of perfect happiness,” said madame, as she lay at last among her pillows, with her hands clasped upon her breast, “of perfect happiness! Think of that, children! Four hours of perfect happiness!”

Annette said eagerly, “I too, grandmother, I too have been perfectly happy.” But Sappha did not speak, she bent her head and kissed madame, and fussed a little about her night posset, and her pillows, and the rush light, and so managed to evade any notice of a silence which might have been construed adversely. For indeed Sappha had not been perfectly happy. She had rejoiced with those that rejoiced, but in her heart there was a sense of failure. Leonard had not sought her out, and she had been unable to gain any recognition from him. For a short time he was in the Clarks’ box, and she watched for some sign that he was aware of her presence; but the sign did not come, and long before the entertainment was over he had disappeared.

“He is jealous again,” she thought with a sigh. And really it appeared as if, in this crisis, he had some cause for offence. His offer to accompany Sappha and her family had been refused, and Sappha was with Achille. He had not even been asked to join Achille’s party, and as for the judge’s gout—every one knew he was subject to the complaint. He thought Mrs. Bloommaert might have left him for three or four hours; he told himself that she would have done so if Sappha had asked her with sufficient persuasion. It angered him to see the girl he loved and whose troth he held, in the company of Achille St. Ange. For he was not yet aware of Achille’s engagement to Annette, the letter which Sappha sent by Kouba not having reached him. For Kouba had thought far more of enjoying the excitement of the streets than of finding Mr. Murray, and the only effort he made in that direction was to finally leave the letter at the City Hotel, where he was told Mr. Murray was dining.

So this tremulous fear of having wounded her lover was dropped into Sappha’s cup of pleasure, and clouded and dimmed its perfection. Its very uncertainty was fretsome; there was nothing tangible to put aside; it affected her as a drop of ink infects a glass of pure water—it cannot be definitely pointed out, but it has spoiled the water. The only certain feeling was a regret, which lay like a slant shadow over her heart and life. She was glad when the morning came. She wished to go home, and be alone a little. Annette’s selfish joy, though effusively good-tempered, was not pleasant, and it struck Sappha in that hour that there are times when good breeding is better than good temper.

On arriving at the Bowling Green she interviewed Kouba at once. But Kouba had his tale ready. He assured Sappha that he had found Mr. Murray eating his dinner at the City Hotel, and that a white man had promised to send the letter right away to him, “And I saw him do it,” he added, with a reckless disregard for facts. If this was the case, then Leonard knew of the engagement between Annette and Achille, and she could not imagine why her lover had so obviously ignored her.

But for a time it was necessary to put this question out of her mind. She had to describe the previous evening’s proceedings to her father and mother, and then it was dinner time—and Leonard had not come. She was utterly miserable, and under the plea of a headache went to her room. It was impossible for her to talk any longer of those things that did not concern her. She wanted to think of her lover, and if possible discover what course was the best to take.

“Oh, if father had not been ill just at this time!” she sighed, “we might have been all so happy together last night! Why did father’s attack come on the very day both mother and I wanted him to be well? Oh, how unfortunate!” And Sappha’s lament was quite true—the unfortunate thing usually happens at the unfortunate time, for a malign fate never does things by half. So the girl wept, and told herself that she was sorry she had gone to the theatre at all, and that whenever she tried to be kind to others and to forget herself she was always sorry. She declared Leonard had a right to be offended. He had been badly treated, and his desire to have their engagement made public was a wise and honourable one for both of them. Perhaps her arguments were all wrong, but then the human relations are built on feeling, not on reason or knowledge. And feeling is not an exact science; like all spiritual qualities, it has the vagueness of greatness about it.

However, youth is happy in this respect—it can weep. Sorrow finds an outlet by the eyes; when we grow older it sinks inward and drowns the heart. So Sappha wept her grief away, and was sitting in a kind of dismal, hopeless stillness when Leonard came.

They met and embraced speechlessly, and it was evident that Leonard also had been suffering. But in little confidences and mutual explanations all suspicions and fears passed away, and their love was nourished and cherished by the tears with which they watered it. And in this interview they came to the conclusion that their engagement must be publicly ratified, and Leonard promised to see Judge Bloommaert as soon as the latter was able to discuss the subject.

“And you will not vex my father about Mr. Burr? Dear Leonard, you will not put Mr. Burr before me?”

“I will put no one on earth before you, my darling! No one!”

“Remember, Leonard, that you have had nothing but worries since you visited the man. But wherever or whenever you meet Aaron Burr, I would count it an unlucky day.”

And the questionable words sunk deeper into Leonard’s consciousness than far more reasonable arguments would have done. He answered them with kisses only, but as he walked up the Bowling Green he said at intervals, as if answering his thoughts: “Perhaps—maybe—who can tell? She is best of all, God forever bless her!”

As for Sappha, she went swiftly upstairs to her room. Her heart was as light as it had been heavy. She sat down, she arose, she rubbed her palms with pleasure, she sighed, she smiled, and her eyes were full of love’s own light as she whispered softly, “Leonard! Leonard! Leonard! Oh, my dear one!”

Thus does grief favour all who bear the gift of tears.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Incident of Marriage

The interview so important to Leonard’s love affairs, and so eagerly desired by him, did not come as he had planned it should come. He had intended to speak to the judge when Mrs. Bloommaert was present and Sappha not far away, for he counted very largely on their personal influence for a favourable answer to his request. But one morning as he was passing the house the judge, who was sitting by the window, saw him; and by a friendly, familiar gesture, invited him to an interview.

“You see, Mr. Murray,” he said cheerfully, “I have fallen behind in all city news. Sit an hour and tell me what is going on.” And he held the young man’s hand and looked with pleasure into his frank, handsome countenance.

“Well, judge, De Witt Clinton is sure to be re-elected mayor.”

“Yes, yes; the majority of the council are Federalists.”

“I think the war party are equally in his favour.”

“No doubt, he has been a good mayor. Any war news?”

“There is a report that the Constitution captured the British war frigate Java about last Christmas Day. I believe the report, for it came by the privateer Tartar, Captain King.”

“I wish we could have any such news from the Niagara frontier. Nothing but disaster comes that way. The government has requested my son Peter to go there and assist Brown with the building of the lake fleet. I wonder if it will accomplish anything.”

“All it is intended to accomplish, judge. We must give the men up there time and opportunity. Before summer is over we shall hear from them.”

They then began a conversation upon the defences of New York, and Leonard described the work going forward on Hendrick’s reef, and at Navesink. “There are more than eight hundred Jersey Blues on the heights,” he said, “and the telegraph on the Highlands is ready to work. General Izard is an active and zealous officer.”

Having exhausted this subject, the judge suddenly became personal, and with an abruptness that startled Leonard, asked:

“How are you spending these fine winter days, Mr. Murray? Tell me, if my question is not an intrusive one.”

“Indeed, sir, I consider it a great honour. And advice from you, at this time, would be of more service than you can imagine.”

“If you will take it; but most people ask advice only that it may confirm them in the thing they have already resolved to do.”

“I will ask your advice, sir. It cannot but be better than my own opinion.” Then Leonard explained his intention with regard to the study of the law regulating real estate, and Judge Bloommaert listened with attention and evident satisfaction.

“It will be a good thing for you to do, Mr. Murray,” he answered, when Leonard ceased speaking. “You ought not to be idle, even if you can afford it; and this study will not only employ your time, it will eventually save you much money. Go and see Mr. Vanderlyn. Perhaps he may let you read with him. No one knows more about real estate.”

“I have been told, sir, that Mr. Burr is the greatest authority on that subject.”

“Mr. Burr is out of consideration.”

“I confess, sir, that I have already considered him.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Not definitely.”

“Mr. Murray, if you sit in Mr. Burr’s office, you will soon share his opinions. And in such case, I should be compelled to forbid you the society of myself and family. You cannot touch pitch and not be defiled.”

He spoke with rising anger, and Leonard answered as softly as possible:

“Judge, I ask your advice in this matter. I have already told you I would take it. Can we not talk of Mr. Burr as reasonably as of the war and our defences? I am open to conviction, and free to confess that I do not see what Mr. Burr has done to merit the ostracism he is receiving from certain parties. I suppose it is one of the accidents of his fate, a paradox—and life is full of paradoxes.”

“Mr. Burr’s ostracism is no accident, it is his own act. The man has committed a crime, and the interpretation thereof is written on everything he does.”

“You mean his duel with Mr. Hamilton? Sir, if Mr. Hamilton had killed Mr. Burr, would the Federalists have considered it a crime?”

“Mr. Hamilton’s case is out of our jurisdiction. It is gone to a higher court.”

“Is not that special pleading, judge?”

“It will do for the case.”

“Hamilton had publicly called Burr unprincipled, dangerous, despicable, an American Cataline—oh, many other derogatory epithets! Would not Mr. Burr have been generally held as despicable if he had not defended his good name?”

“By killing his defamer?”

“Well, sir, how else could he have done it?”

“In politics men call each other all sorts of ill names. They even invent new ones for their opponent. And though in Paradise the lion will lie down with the lamb, in Paradise they will not have to submit their rival political views to general elections. Say that Mr. Hamilton was vituperative—it was a war of words. Mr. Burr Had a tongue and a pen, as well as Mr. Hamilton. If Mr. Hamilton had insulted Mr. Burr’s wife, or run off with his daughter, there might have been some excuse for a bloody settlement, but words, words, words, the tongue or the pen would have answered them.”

“Then, judge, you do not approve of the duel?”

“I do not. But I think that Mr. Burr’s fatal mistake will eventually put duelling as much out as witchcraft. We shall probably also have strong repressive laws against it.”

“Yet as long as public opinion respects duelling, no repressive law will be as strong as public opinion. We are as moral and intelligent now as any people can be, yet the duel is not obsolete, nor has Mr. Burr’s ostracism been a deterrent.”

“I know that. Last year two men quarrelled about an umbrella in the hall of Scudder’s Museum, and the next day one of them shot the other dead. Nine out of ten people called the dead man a fool for his pains. Mr. Murray, the duel has become perilously close to the ridiculous. Men may talk about blowing out brains for an angry word, but the majority quietly laugh at the absurdity. Such conduct is totally unworthy of American common sense. For no man of intelligence would fight a duel if he remembered that he would render himself liable to form the text for an article in The Morning Chronicle. To be treated either with its satire or its morality would be equally depressing—it would make him intensely ridiculous in any case. But we shall never give up duelling on moral and intelligent grounds.”

“Then on what other grounds?”

“The class duellists come from are the brainless class; and if the custom was strictly confined by this class to their fellows, it would be one of the most innocent of their amusements. We must make duelling ridiculous, for when mockery and satire are constant about any subject, you may know that thing is dead, and its shell only remains.”

“But, judge, if a man’s honour is assailed—”

“If we were all Hotspurs, Mr. Murray, and ready to plunge into the deep and pluck honour by the locks, we might count on sympathy; but when the majority think with Falstaff, that ‘honour is a mere scutcheon’ we get a chill, until we remember the divine law. For after all, sir, the Decalogue remains as a finality. Look up the sixth clause of that code.”

“There is nothing to add to it, sir.”

“Not on moral and intellectual grounds. Socially, you may remember the homely proverb which advises ‘Go with good men, and you will be counted one of them.’ Go with Mr. Burr, and you will be counted with him; held at the same price—nay, you will be only one of Mr. Burr’s satellites. If you want really to study law—”

“No, sir. I give up the idea. I have said sufficient to Mr. Burr to wound him if I go elsewhere. And just because he is down at present, I will not give him a coward’s kick.”

“There is no occasion to do so. It is not a chargeable thing to salute civilly. But Mr. Burr’s affairs are none of your profit, therefore why make them your peril?”

“I thank you for your good advice, judge.”

“Then take it.”

“I will, sir.”

“Now having interfered with your intention, I am bound to offer you something in its place. It is this: I can get you active employment with Gouverneur Morris, Simeon De Witt, and John Rutherford, who are busy yet in perfecting their plans for the streets of the future New York. I should not wonder if they map out the whole island. In fact, they have already provided space for a greater population than is collected on any spot this side of China. I cannot say I like their mathematical arrangement; they are making a city idealised after Euclid—straight, stiff, wearisome, without character or expression.”

“But it will be a most convenient arrangement. I would carry the plan out, even north of Harlem Flat.”

“There will be no houses there for centuries to come.”

“Oh, yes, sir, before this century goes out.”

The judge smiled. He liked the young man’s enthusiasm, and he answered: “So be it. You shall help to survey the ground. I will speak to De Witt to-morrow.”

At this point of the discussion there was a knock at the front door, followed by a little stir of entrance, and the sound of speech and light laughter. Both men were suddenly all ear. There was no more conversation, and after a few moments of silent expectation Mrs. Bloommaert and Sappha entered the room together. They were in happy mood, and Sappha was so lovely with the bloom of the frosty air on her smiling face that Leonard forgot everything and every one but her, and before either were aware he had taken her hands and kissed her.

The next moment they both realised their position, and Leonard, still holding Sappha’s hand, led her to the astonished father. “Sir,” he said, “we have loved each other since we were children. Will you now sanction our love, and permit our betrothal?”

The judge looked helplessly at his wife. She was watching the young couple with smiles on her face, and evident sympathy in her heart for their cause. If he wished to be adverse and disagreeable, he foresaw he would have no help from Mrs. Bloommaert. Yet to give up in a moment all the wavering feelings of dislike he had entertained for Leonard, and all his own settled purpose of no recognised engagement for his daughter until peace was accomplished, was a hard struggle. Perhaps it was well he had to decide in a moment. At that precise hour he was in a mood of liking Leonard, and he had no time to reason himself into another mood. Slowly, and with a little asperity, he answered:

“Mr. Murray, it seems to me you have not waited either for my sanction or my permission.”

“Ah, sir, consider the temptation.”

Involuntarily he looked into the face of “the temptation.” With clear, shining eyes she held his eyes a moment, and then her voice uttered the undeniable entreaty: “I love Leonard so dearly, father. And he loves me.”

“I see! I see!”

“We only wish to please you, father; that is best of all.”

“Indeed, sir, that is best of all!” said Leonard eagerly.

“Well, well! In this country the majority rules. What can a man do if there are three against him, especially when one of the three is his wife?” and he shook his head, and looked somewhat reproachfully at his wife.

Then Sappha slipped her arms around his neck, and laid her cheek against his, and he embraced his daughter and stretched out his hand to Leonard.

Thus Fortune often brings in the boats we do not steer, and by what we call a happy accident guides our dearest and most difficult hopes to a sudden fruition. It is then a good thing to leave the door wide open for our unknown angels. They often accomplish for us what we hardly dare to attempt.

After this settlement Sappha and Leonard felt that they might revel in the joy of life and take their pleasure where-ever they found it. And they found it both in public and private affairs. Annette’s marriage was to take place in June, and there were preparations without end going on for that event. Her grandfather De Vries had given her, as a wedding gift, the Semple place, a beautiful old home set in a fine garden which had once sloped down to the river bank.

“It is not exactly what I should have chosen,” said the bride-elect; “but it is valuable property, and grandfather would not have given it to me if I had not promised to live there.”

“It is no hardship to live in the Semple house,” said Sappha. “The rooms are so large, the woodwork so richly carved, and the garden is the sweetest, shadiest place in New York, I think.”

“Grandmother is going to furnish it, and she lets me choose exactly what I want. I declare, dear Achille and I have no time for love-making, we are so worried about chairs and tables and wedding garments.”