Part 18

“Well, then, it looks like cowardice!” she sobbed passionately, “and then Saturday he told me some story about his lawyer detaining him—never once did he name Gilson to me. It looks like— Oh, wee! oh, wee! my heart will break with the shame of it! Every one will pity me. Even if some make excuses for Leonard, I shall know it is only pity for me—only pity! I cannot bear it! I cannot think of it! Father and mother must take me away—no, no, I must face the shame, smile at it, what they call ‘live it down.’ Oh, what shall I say? What shall I do? And mother is too ill to trouble. And to father I cannot complain of Leonard. Oh, Leonard! Leonard! Leonard!”

And it was while tossed from wave to wave on this flood tide of anger and sorrow that she was told Leonard was waiting to see her. She rose up hastily. Had she taken a few moments to calm herself everything might have been different. But even her opening of the doors between herself and her lover betrayed the whirl and tumult of the feelings that distracted her. Nor was this mental storm soothed by Leonard’s presence. He came eagerly forward to meet her; a pleasant smile on his face and a white rose in his hand. She took the flower from him, and threw it down upon the table; and he regarded her with amazement. Her face, her attitude, the passion of her movements, arrested the words he was eager to utter; and in that fateful pause Sappha’s unguarded, unconsidered accusations fell like the voice of doom upon his senses.

“You are a byword among men! No nice girl will be seen with you! You will never again be asked to any respectable house! Annette says so! She will be even compelled to shut her door against you!”

“Sappha, Sappha! Do you know what you are saying?”

“Only too well I know it. Annette has just been here. She has told me all. You left her to tell me. Why did you not come yourself? Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, all these days I have been in suspense and misery.”

“Listen to me, Sappha, I—”

“It is too late now. Annette has told me. I have heard it all—my heart is broken—I shall die of shame. Every one will pity me. I cannot, I cannot bear it—”

“Stop one moment, Sappha. Do you believe Annette? Do you think she will be forced to shut her door against me?”

“She says so.”

“Then Judge Bloommaert may have the same obligation—and you also. If you can believe this, you can believe anything that is said against me, your promised husband. It is I who am heartbroken. It is I who must feel shame. It is I who must go all my life in the fiery shadow of wrong and injustice. Sappha, you have known me as no other person has known me,—in my inmost soul,—and yet you can believe I deserve such treatment?”

“How can I tell? If you had done anything to right yourself—”

“Oh, that is not the question. You should have trusted me through everything, and in spite of every one. You have failed me just when I needed most your love and confidence. If Annette tells you I ought to be shut out of your heart and house, you will believe her! What is your love worth? It is only a summer day’s idyll. The first chill wind of disapproval kills it. I will go before I am shut out. In future days it may be easier for you to remember that I closed the door on my own happiness. Oh, Sappha, Sappha! lighter than vapour is your love—and I had built my life upon it!”

His face expressed more indignation than distress. He lifted the rose she had flung down and looked at it with a moment’s pity; then he pushed it toward her.

“It is my last offering,” he said. “Take it. And as it fades, forget me. I shall never give you shame or trouble again.”

Then anger took entire possession of Sappha; and anger does everything wrong. She lifted the rose and cried out amid her passionate weeping:

“I will not wait for it to fade. No, I will forget you now! now! now!” and as she uttered the words she ruthlessly tore off the white petals, scattered them on the floor at his feet—and was gone.

Her tears, her shivering words, the utter passion of misery and tenderness that made the action almost like the slaying of a living creature, so stupefied and fascinated Leonard that for a moment he could neither move nor speak. When he recovered himself he ran to the foot of the stairs and called her. “Sappha! Sappha!” he cried. “Sappha, come back to me, I have something to tell you.” But she was gone. A slight flutter of her white gown as she turned the last angle was all he saw; and if she heard his appeal she did not answer it.

For a few minutes he waited, but the laughter of the negroes in the kitchen, coming faintly through the baize-lined doors, was the only sound he heard. Then he returned to the parlour and carefully gathered, one by one, the torn leaves. The last note Sappha had sent him was in his pocket book. He placed them between the sheets and, shutting them in the book, put it in his breast.

What was he so still for? What had he done? What had come to him? Blast, or blight, or fire, or fever? He picked up the torn rose leaves as if they were bits of his heart, and the door clashed behind him and seemed to shake the very foundations of his life. He knew that he was walking, but his heart hung heavy at his feet. All he loved was behind him—he was drifting, drifting into a darkness where love and joy would never again find him. Oh, it is only

“— the Lord above, He only knows the strength of Love; He only knows, and He only can, The root of Love that is in a man.”

CHAPTER NINE

The Reproof of the Sword

Leonard’s suffering was very great, but Sappha’s was still greater. Wounded love, injustice, and disappointment can inflict mental distress that has no parallel in physical pain, but with Sappha’s misery was mingled the intolerable drop of remorse for her hasty passion. Now that all was over, now that Leonard had gone away forever, there came to her the clearest conviction that she had done him a great wrong. She remembered that she had not even given him an opportunity to explain circumstances—she had met him with passionate reproaches and flung his love gift, torn and mutilated, at his feet. After that shameful, piteous rejection what could Leonard do but go away? It was an act for which there could be no apology and no forgiveness. She cried out with the anguish this cruel, hopeless reflection caused her; and had Leonard been really present she would have fallen at his feet in an agony of love and repentance.

Prone upon her bed she lay, torturing herself by a thousand self-reproaches, and by a perpetual memory of that last look of pained amazement with which her lover had regarded her. She could not put it from her, it seemed to have exorcised every other memory of his face. With heartbroken sobs she sent after him one cry, “Forgive me! Oh, Leonard, forgive me!” But the void between them swallowed it up in silence. There was nothing to be done. The long, long days and years before her held only frustrate longings and despair. This reflection came to her as a finality, and she ceased weeping and protesting and lay dumb and passive like a child smitten by a power it can neither appease nor comprehend.

Her mother found her in this mood, and when Sappha said, “I cannot come to dinner to-day, I am in trouble. Annette told me things about Leonard, and I have sent him away forever!” the mother understood and was full of pity.

“Do not try to come down, dear,” she answered. “As soon as your father goes out, I will return to you.”

“Are you better, mother? Are you able to attend to father?”

“Yes, yes, I am well again. Ah, me, there is always sorrow at somebody’s heart!”

“It is my own fault, mother. Leonard is not to blame. I will tell you—after a little while.”

Then Mrs. Bloommaert went with a heavy heart to serve the dinner; for whether heads are aching or hearts breaking dinner is a fact that cannot be excused. She was full of anxious thought as she went about the table, placing sauces, condiments, and wines, and arranging the small details which always pleased her husband. He had been depressed and angry concerning Leonard Murray’s conduct for some days, and she wondered how the news of Sappha’s dismissal of the young man would affect him.

Contrary to all expectation he entered the house in high spirits. He was delighted to find his wife better, and able to give him her company and sympathy; and as soon as they were alone he began to talk to her about Leonard in a manner full of pride and satisfaction. Nor was he much dashed by the information that there had been a quarrel between the lovers, and a final separation.

“Final separation!” he repeated, with an incredulous laugh. “Nonsense. That is a regular climax to a love fever. They will be more devoted than ever in a week’s time. Tell her what I have just told you, and they will be friends in half an hour.”

“I fear not. Leonard has shown wonderful patience so far, but my father used to say ‘beware the anger of a patient man’; for when once his patience has given way, his anger is not to be pacified.”

“All foolishness, Carlita. Go and tell Sappha everything. I promised to meet St. Ange about three o’clock; you see I have not any time to spare now.”

“I do not know what Annette said to Sappha—something ill-natured, no doubt; but I wonder St. Ange did not give her strict orders to keep her tongue quiet about this business.”

“You wonder St. Ange did not give Annette ‘strict orders.’ Well, Carlita, I wonder at your simplicity. Who can order a bad-tempered woman’s tongue? Tell Sappha I have gone with St. Ange to see Leonard. Doubtless I shall bring him home with me.”

He went out with this pleasant anticipation, and Mrs. Bloommaert arranged a little dinner for her daughter, and sent it upstairs to her. “You must eat, Sappha,” she said, “you can’t live on your tears. And I have good news for you—very good news. See now, how nice this roast chicken looks, and the beans, and the strawberry tart; and I made the tea myself; yes, dear, you must have a cup of tea, and you must first tell me all that Annette, the cruel ill-natured woman, said to you.”

This confidence helped Sappha wonderfully. She could rightly enough blame Annette, and there was relief in shifting so much of the reproach from herself. And Mrs. Bloommaert felt no scruple in throwing the whole weight of the unfortunate affair on Annette. “It would never have happened, never!” she said, “if Annette had been minding her house and her baby instead of following Achille round; and then because she could not find him she must come and vent her home-made wretchedness on you. I wish I had heard her! She called Leonard a coward, did she?”

“She said every respectable person thought him one, and she repeated many things about him getting enormous interest from the city—oh, mother, I cannot go over it again.”

“There is no need to do so. Leonard Murray has turned all such ideas topsy-turvy. Now I am going to tell you all about it, and you will see how well he has managed this miserable business. On Sunday he went to see Achille, and Achille told him he could forbear no longer, and though Leonard thought it was a kind of cowardice to fight a man so inferior in skill both with sword and pistol to himself, Achille convinced him there was no other way to prevent Gilson lying. So early on Monday morning Achille called upon Gilson. He first presented to him a paper acknowledging all his accusations against Leonard to be false and malicious, requiring him to sign it. But Gilson fell into a great passion, and said he would fight St. Ange for daring to offer him such an insult; and Achille answered, ‘it would give him a supreme pleasure to allow him an opportunity as soon as his friend, Mr. Murray, had received satisfaction.’ Then he gave him Leonard’s challenge. The fellow threw it carelessly down on the table, and said ‘he was going to Boston on important affairs, but when he returned he would make immediate arrangements to meet Mr. Murray and teach him to mind his own business.’ ‘On the contrary,’ said Achille, ‘you will meet Mr. Murray before you go to Boston. You will meet him to-morrow morning at half-past seven o’clock in Hahn’s wood, Hoboken. You know the place. Or if there is any other place you prefer, I am here to make arrangements.’ Gilson said, ‘one place was as good as another.’ Then they agreed that the weapons should be rapiers, and Gilson laughed scornfully, and ‘hoped the clearing at Hahn’s wood was not too large, for he intended close quarters. Murray,’ he said, ‘could not have half an acre to skip about in.’ To which fresh insult Achille answered that if Mr. Gilson wished close quarters he felt sure Mr. Murray would be delighted to fight on a billiard table.”

“I like Achille, mother, yes I do!”

“Achille is a good friend in need. He made all other arrangements for the duel, and Gilson promised that he and his friend Myron Hays would be on the ground at half-past seven the following morning. He used a deal of very bad language in making these arrangements. Your father said we could imagine it as bad as we chose, and that then it would come far short of the reality.”

“So there was a duel this morning! Oh, mother, if I had only known!”

“Do not hurry me, Sappha. I want to tell you all just as it happened. Leonard did not trust Gilson’s promise, nor did Achille. They determined to watch him; and they found out two things: first, that he intended leaving New York for Boston soon after seven; second, that he had ordered breakfast for himself and Myron Hays fifteen minutes before seven at the City Hotel.”

“But, mother, Gilson must have known that Leonard stayed at the City Hotel?”

“Of course he knew; but he felt sure Leonard would be crossing the river at that time. Then he would have taken his breakfast, sending the while repeated inquiries as to whether any one had seen Leonard or St. Ange, and affecting great indignation at their non-appearance. Finally some insolent message of future defiance and punishment would have been left with the proprietor for Leonard. Oh, can you not see through the foolish, cowardly plan?”

“It was a contemptible scheme, and full of weak points, mother,” answered Sappha.

“It would have answered well enough; it would, at least, have thrown doubt and contempt on both men. Fortunately Leonard and St. Ange followed Gilson so closely that they were at his side ere he had finished giving the order for serving his coffee. ‘At present,’ said St. Ange very politely, ‘there is not time for coffee. We will cross the river at once, sir,’ and Gilson answered, ‘I am going to Boston on most important business. Mr. Murray must have got my letter explaining.’ Then Leonard said, ‘You never wrote me any letter, sir. And you are not going to Boston, you are going to Hoboken, and that at once.’ Gilson still insisted that he would fight Leonard when he came back from Boston, and St. Ange told him he could have that satisfaction if he wished it; but first of all, he must fulfil his present engagement. ‘All is ready for it, he continued; ‘a boat waits for you and Mr. Hays at the foot of the garden, and another boat for Mr. Murray and myself will keep yours in sight.’ Then the man looked at his second, and Mr. Hays said it was proper to go at once, and he was thus morally, or unmorally, forced into compliance. At the last moment Gilson ‘supposed arms and a doctor had been remembered,’ and St. Ange told him those duties had been delegated to him and properly attended to. ‘The doctor,’ he said, ‘was in their boat, and the swords also,’ the latter having been approved by Mr. Hays on the previous day, at which time it was also agreed that Gilson should have his choice of the two weapons. St. Ange told your father there had been several irregularities, but that all had been arranged with perfect fairness by himself and Mr. Hays.”

At this juncture Sappha lost all control of her emotions and began to weep and lament; and her mother rather sharply continued: “Tears are not needed at all, Sappha. Leonard was perfectly calm. Of his own safety he had not a fear. He and St. Ange kept Gilson’s boat in sight until they landed; then the ground was marked off, and the men threw away their coats and vests and received their swords from the seconds. I cannot tell you just what happened, but your father could make it plain enough I dare say. To me it was only thrust and parry, touch and go, for a few minutes, then Leonard made a feint at Gilson’s breast, but by a movement instantaneous as a thought nailed his right foot to the ground with his rapier. The man shrieked, and would have seized Leonard’s sword, but that action was instantly prevented by the seconds. The affair was over. Gilson was at Leonard’s mercy, and when he withdrew his sword St. Ange said, ‘Doctor, the case is now yours. And then turning to Gilson he continued, ‘Mr. Gilson, if you cannot control your tongue in the future, we will do this as often as you like.’”

“I hope the man will not die, mother!”

“Oh, no! Leonard intended only to punish him. He will have a few weeks’ severe pain, and may have to use a crutch for a longer time—perhaps he may not dance any more; but he only received what he richly deserved.”

“But I do not see, mother, how this duel will put Leonard right in people’s estimation.”

“Oh, my dear, St. Ange took good care to secure witnesses to Gilson’s cowardly attempt to get away; and the men who rowed the two boats were there, to report for the newspapers. They heard much conversation I have not repeated. Your father also thinks Myron Hays, though he would not say much, was deceived and very indignant. You may be sure that St. Ange and Leonard arranged for a full vindication. Now, Sappha, wash your face and dress yourself prettily. Father said he would bring Leonard back to tea with him.”

“Leonard will not come with father. He will never come again, I know! I know!”

“If he does not, his behaviour will be cruel and dishonourable. Why did he not tell you about the duel!”

“He could not—I did not give him a moment’s opportunity. It was my fault—all my fault. I was so angry at what Annette told me that I met him in a passion, and before he had time to tell me why he had stayed away and what had occurred I shocked him with Annette’s false charges, one upon the other, without any pause, until I told him that Annette was going to shut her door against him. Then he asked me if we also intended to shut our door against him, and mother, I have no excuse—there is no excuse for me, none! I ought to suffer. Oh, how miserable I am! And, mother, mother, I have made my own misery.”

“You go too far, Sappha. You make too much of a few words. All lovers have quarrels, and in my opinion Leonard cannot come back too soon.”

“He will not come. He was too quiet. He said too little. He will never come back. Always, we have slighted him a little.”

“He has been very well received—do not make excuses for him on that ground. I wish Annette would keep her tongue out of our affairs. She is nothing but a mischief maker.”

“I know, but Annette could not have harmed me if I had been true to Leonard. To be ready to doubt him, only on Annette’s word, was a shameful wrong, and I deserve to be forsaken and forgotten.”