Part 19

“It is Leonard’s fault more than yours. He ought to have stopped that man’s tongue at once. Any woman would have become suspicious and irritable. It was a shame for Leonard to put your love for him to such a trial. He will see that as soon as he gets over the little slight. Now dress yourself, dear, and come downstairs. What is the use of nursing sorrow in a darkened room? Sunshine makes grief more bearable. I do believe that Leonard will return with your father.”

“I will come down—but Leonard will not return with father.”

“You are very provoking, Sapphira. And I can tell you one thing, they that are determined to be miserable will always find the wherewithal for misery. Try and hope for the best,” and she kissed her and added, “Put on a fresh white frock, you look best in white.”

So Sappha did as she was counselled, but her bravery did not help her to bear her sorrow—a sorrow made worse by its uncertainty in all respects. If Leonard had only granted her a little time, if he had been patient enough to tell her of the morning’s events, if he had not given that rose of renunciation! Yes, that act of his was the real provocative of her desertion. He had told her to forget him. What could he expect but a prompt acceptance of his request? It would have been impossible at that stage to have hesitated. He had broken their betrothal, not her; how then could she hope he would make any effort to renew it?

She did not hope for it, though she obeyed her mother’s desire, and with an aching heart dressed herself in white and went downstairs. About five o’clock she heard her father’s steps, and he was not alone. But the double footsteps did not give her a moment’s hope. She knew they were not Leonard’s, and in a few moments she saw that St. Ange was her father’s companion. They were talking in tones of earnest gratification, and as soon as the ordinary greetings were over resumed their conversation.

The subject was, of course, the duel and the sympathetic response it had evoked in Leonard’s favour. Gilson’s effort to escape to Boston, his bullying language when detected, the decided white feather he had shown on the field, his cowardice under pain since he had received his punishment, were now the topics of public conversation; and the men who had been foremost in doubting Leonard Murray were now the warmest in his praise. All these things St. Ange described in his usual sparkling detail, and the judge, Mrs. Bloommaert, and Sappha listened to him with the keenest interest.

Suddenly Judge Bloommaert said: “I never heard before of a man disabling his antagonist just in that way. I wonder how Leonard learned the stroke.”

“One of Robespierre’s emigrants taught it to Leonard. He was a noble of the highest lineage, but when driven to America he embraced the simple life of the wilderness with inconceivable ardour. Leonard met him in the exploring party which he accompanied to the Mississippi, and together they went down the river to New Orleans. Their tedious voyage was relieved with sword play, and under this French noble’s tuition Leonard became an incomparable fencer. With this same stroke he disarmed Señor Zavala in New Orleans.”

“Ah! Then Murray has fought before?”

“Yes. The duel between Señor Zavala and Mr. Murray is well remembered in New Orleans.”

“Suppose, then, you tell us about it,” said Mrs. Bloommaert.

“I was not acquainted with Leonard at the time, but Mr. Livingston told me of the circumstance. The Americans in New Orleans are proud of it.”

“Why have you never named it before, then?” asked the judge.

“Leonard desired me not to speak of it because he said there was a feeling against the duel in New York, and that you, judge, whose good opinion he specially desired, were opposed to the custom. I think, indeed, that Leonard’s reluctance to notice Gilson’s slanders arose from a fear of offending you.”

“Well, St. Ange, as a general thing I do not approve of the duel; but there are exceptions to every rule, and the exceptions must be condoned. They need not, however, be repeated.”

“We are more anxious to hear about Leonard’s New Orleans affair than to discuss the right or wrong of duelling,” said Mrs. Bloommaert. And St. Ange smilingly continued:

“The occasion for it lay backward some years, even to that twentieth of December, A. D., 1801, when the tri-coloured flag of the French republic was displayed at sunrise in New Orleans for the last time. For at noon that day Governor Claiborne and General Wilkinson, at the head of the American forces, entered New Orleans, and the French Commissioner Laussant gave up the keys of the City Hall to them. Amid tears and profound silence the French flag was hauled down, and the Stars and Stripes took its place.

“There were about one hundred and fifty Americans in the city at that time, and they stood together on the corner of the Place d’Arms and cheered it. But no one else showed any approval. The French and Spanish inhabitants could not reconcile themselves to the change; prejudices amounting to superstition made them for a long time attribute everything unpleasant to the American occupation. This bias was carried so far that when, on one occasion, a public ball was interrupted by an earthquake the anger of an old Creole gentleman was roused, and he said passionately, ‘It was not in the Spanish or the French times that the amusements of the ladies were interfered with.’

“However, as soon as the cession was complete, northern immigration poured into New Orleans, and when the present war was proclaimed there was no lack of enthusiasm for its prosecution. Still some of the old antagonism remained, and one morning as Leonard was in the Place d’Arms he saw some members of a volunteer regiment deploy there. A boyish American carried the flag in front of them, and Señor Zavala as he passed made a very offensive and contemptuous remark. Leonard stepped out and asked if he intended that remark for the American flag. Zavala answered, ‘It is most welcome to it, Señor.’ Leonard challenged him there and then. As Zavala was something of a bravo, he looked amused, and, when he saw that Leonard was in earnest, annoyed. For he did not like to fight such a youth; he had the same scruple that influenced Leonard in fighting Gilson; he considered himself so superior in skill to his challenger that an acceptance was very like cruelty, if not also cowardice.

“But Leonard would not retreat, and Zavala declined to make any apology, and the duel took place. A great interest was evinced in this affair, though duels were common enough on every subject, and Leonard had especially the watchful sympathy of every American in the city. They were resolved that at least he should have fair play, and that if he had been wounded there were plenty of men ready to take up his quarrel with Zavala. To the amazement of every one Zavala was disarmed in less than five minutes, and in precisely the same manner as Gilson. But his behaviour was very different. He made no outcry, he knew the code too well to touch his antagonist’s sword, and it was with a polite smile he handed his rapier to Leonard and said, ‘Señor, my sword is yours. I make my apology to you and to your flag.’”

“I have nothing to say against that duel,” said the judge, and Mrs. Bloommaert’s face was radiant with sympathy and approval. Sappha’s eyes, heavy with unshed tears, were dropped, and she could not speak. Had she tried her very words would have wept.

“Leonard behaved splendidly,” continued St. Ange. “With his weapon he withdrew all ill feeling, and during Zavala’s convalescence he passed some time with him every day, and supplied him with attentions and luxuries Zavala’s own means could not have procured. The conclusion of this story I heard yesterday. Zavala is now enrolled for the defence of the very flag he insulted. Mr. Livingston had the news in a letter, and he recalled the duel to my memory in order to emphasise the result.

“It is rather remarkable,” said the judge. “I never heard of this affair before.”

“Well, no!” answered Achille. “It was only known by the Livingstons, myself, and Leonard; and none of us thought it well to talk about it here. New York is not New Orleans, where the duel is concerned. To have fought a few successful duels in New Orleans is a social distinction; in New York the result socially is doubtful. You have only to look at Mr. Burr—”

“There is a heavier charge against Mr. Burr than the duel—his country—”

“Pardon me, judge, his country’s laws have declared him innocent; can we go behind judge, jury, and the written law?”

At this question Mrs. Bloommaert rose from the table, and Sappha quietly left the room, and did not return to it. Every word uttered by Achille had intensified her grief and made more bitter her repentance. Never before had she understood her lover or rightly valued his affection. Alas, alas, that sorrow should be the clearest of all revelations! Love too often bandages the eyes of the soul, but sorrow rends away all obstructions to vision. At that hour Sappha saw Leonard as she had never before seen him—his unselfishness, his modesty, his patience, the truth and tenderness of his affection, his beauty and graciousness, the living joy that his companionship had been to her. Oh, there was no end to such recollections! and her soul ached in all its senses, for by her own act she had cast ashes on every one of the sweet memories between them.

It was, however, well for her that she could not indulge too much this rapturous pain of memory, for it unfitted her for the world she had to live in; a world empty to her, but thrilling to the highest passions all around her. For none could be indifferent to the fact that peace in Europe meant a far more active war against America. Hitherto, England’s hands had been tied by her conflict with Napoleon and all the nations allied with him; now she was at liberty to turn her armaments against America. Yet, though the people of New York were alive to their danger, and not careless in preparing to meet it, they had never been so remarkable for their entertainments and pleasure taking. All the newspapers commented on the fact, pointing out the number of places of amusement open every night, and the constant steamboat excursions every day.

From all these sources of pleasure Sapphira Bloommaert disappeared. It was said she was in ill health, but as every one knew of her engagement to Leonard Murray her seclusion was generally attributed to his absence. For Sappha’s premonition had been correct; Leonard did not return to her. She watched despairingly for several days, and then heard that he had left the city. It was the judge’s painful duty to give this information to his child, and though he named the circumstance, as it were, casually, he saw and felt the suffering his words caused. Sappha did not speak, but Mrs. Bloommaert said with an angry amazement:

“Gone! Where, then, has he gone to, Gerardus?”

“I know not. No one knows, unless it be lawyer Grahame, or Achille. Grahame will never say a word, nor Achille, until he gets warrant for it.”

“But there must be some opinion,” continued Mrs. Bloommaert. “Men cannot disappear without leaving at least an opinion.”

“Well then, there are several opinions. Some think he has gone to the Niagara frontier, others to Washington, and not a few are sure he is on his way to New Orleans. I myself think New Orleans very likely; he has interests and friends there.”

And Sappha listened and ate her bread to this sorrowful news. Only her colourless face revealed her suffering at that moment; but it showed itself in various ways after this certainty had been accepted. One of the most pronounced forms it took was a feeling of intense dislike and anger towards Annette. She would not go to Annette’s house, nor would she see her if she called at the Bowling Green house. Her reasons were sufficient to herself, and Mrs. Bloommaert thought her daughter justified in her conduct. Not yet could she ask Sappha to forgive; not while her eyes held that look of pain and despair, and her whole manner that of one standing smitten and dismayed before a barrier she could not cross.

As a matter of course, the unhappy Sappha passed her days “going quietly,” almost hopelessly, for there was in her grief that element of tragic fatality, that sense of Fate shaping life by the most trivial things, that renders men and women despairing. Never before had she given sway to a temper so unreasonable, so impetuous, so passionately hasty. And surely not without the co-operation of the stars had Annette called just at that early hour in the morning—Annette, jealous, miserable, ill-tempered, envious, full of suspicions, and delighting in making misery for others as well as herself. Then, unfortunately, Mrs. Bloommaert was ill; and Annette, unrestrained by her presence, while Sappha’s sympathies had been called on all night long and her temper unconsciously frayed and irritated by her inability to prevent her mother’s suffering. Oh, every trivial thing had been against her, even to the small event of her going to the back parlour after breakfast! For had she remained, as was her usual custom, in front of the house, she would have seen Annette’s interview with her father, and been prepared for whatever she might say.

All these considerations gave a sort of fatality to her quarrel with Leonard, but they did not induce any kinder feeling towards Annette. She regarded her, if not as the author, at least as the tool and messenger, of evil; and Annette was quickly made to feel her position. Of course she was angered by it. And Annette was easily made angry at this time, for Achille had never been so provoking and unmanageable. In spite of her complaints, he had lately spent all his days with De Singeron, who was now on the point of sailing for France; and the episode of Leonard’s duel had been specially aggravating, because she had not been taken into confidence concerning it. And with that singular obtuseness common to selfish people, she considered Mrs. Bloommaert’s coolness and Sappha’s constant refusals to see her as a quite uncalled-for show of offence. She told herself she had only repeated what every one was saying, and that if Sappha had any sense of what was proper and respectable she would have been grateful for her candour. “People are always asking to be told the truth,” she complained, “and then when you put yourself out of the way to tell it, they are sure to be angry at you.”

When three weeks had passed in this uncomfortable manner, Annette began seriously to miss her accustomed sources of that familiar friendship which admits of confidence and some showing of individuality. She awoke one morning with a sense of isolation and of not being properly loved and cared for; that was too intolerable to be endured longer, and taking little Jonaca with her as a kind of peacemaker, she called on her aunt and Sappha. As the carriage drew up at the Bloommaert house she saw Sappha rise, and when she entered the parlour only Mrs. Bloommaert was present.

“Good-morning, aunt Carlita! I have brought Jonaca to see you.”

Mrs. Bloommaert kissed the babe, and said she “looked well,” and then resumed her sewing.

“Where is Sappha, aunt?”

“She is in her room. She is not well, and I cannot disturb her.”

“Oh, indeed, aunt, I saw her as I passed the window. She need not run away from me.”

“Has Sappha run away from you? Why has she done that?”

“I suppose because I told her some things about Leonard Murray. It was right for her to know them; but I have no doubt, now that Leonard has run away, she blames me for all his faults.”

“Leonard has not run away, and it is very wrong and very spiteful in you to make such remarks.”

“Nobody knows where he is, and he has left New York. What do you call that, aunt?”

“I call it minding his own affairs, and as for saying no one knows where he is, that is a lie. Because he did not tell Annette St. Ange where he was going, is that proof that he has told no one? Indeed, Annette, if you can believe it, there are a few people of consequence in New York beside yourself—and Mr. St. Ange.”

“Well, then, you need not be angry, aunt. And it is not kind nor yet religious to call what I say ‘a lie.’ No one ever used such a word to me before.”

“You forget. Often I have heard your grandmother say the same thing.”

“She was more polite than to say ‘a lie’; she might doubt what I told her, though always afterwards she found out I was right.”

“Indeed, Annette, you must excuse me from discussing your perfections this morning. I am busy. Sappha is sick.”

“I am going upstairs to see her, aunt.”

“You are not, Annette. You have hurt her sufficiently. I will not allow you to go and tell her that Leonard has ‘run away,’ for instance. And I dare say you have plenty of such sharp speeches ready.”

“I have not—I have only—”

“If they are not ready, ’tis no matter. They spring up to your thoughts. I ask you to excuse me this morning, for I have many things to attend to.”

“Very well. You have hardly noticed little Jonaca, and you have really told me to go away. I think you have behaved in a very rude and unkind manner. You can say to Sappha I am sorry for her. If she will remember I told her often that Leonard Murray was not at all sincere. I don’t think he ever loved Sappha well enough to wish to marry her.”

“Good-morning, Annette!” And with these words Annette found herself alone. She immediately drove to her grandmother’s. She felt sure of appreciation there. And madame was delighted to see her and the child. She took the little one in her arms and held it to her breast with a soft cradling motion that soon put it to sleep, and then she laid it tenderly down among the pillows on the sofa.

“So sweet, so pretty is she!” sighed madame. “I wonder if it is possible that I was ever like to her!”

“Once I too was so sweet! so pretty! so loved and happy! but now—now—”

“Well then, now, you are also sweet and pretty and loved and happy.”

“Oh, no, I am not, grandmother. Every one is cross with me, every one seems to hate me—except you.”

“Hush! hush! What you are saying is not true. It is unlucky to put into words such thoughts.”

“I have just been at aunt Carlita’s, and she hardly noticed Jonaca, and told me she was busy, and I must excuse her.”

“Where was Sappha?”

“Aunt says she is sick. She would not let me see her.”

“Well, then, Sappha looks ill—I have noticed it.”

“She is fretting about Leonard. You know he was really made to fight that duel. I think Achille made him fight it, and now he has run away from New York. I suppose he did not like to meet his acquaintances.”

At this point Annette suddenly stopped speaking, being admonished thereto by her grandmother’s rising anger. The old lady was regarding her with an expression Annette seldom saw on her face, but which was one she did not care to neglect.

“Have you said all the wickedness in your heart, Annette?” she asked sternly. “You know that false, false, false! are all your words. The truth I had from Achille—the whole truth—and Leonard has not run away; why then should he run away? Your uncle Gerardus tells me that very wisely and very honourably he behaved. Also, I heard from him about the affair in New Orleans. That, then, was a duel to be proud of.”

“In New Orleans? What affair in New Orleans, grandmother? I never heard of that.”

“Achille can tell you. Ask him.”

“He has not told me, and he knows. You see then, how much he trusts me, grandmother. I will not ask him. You tell me, grandmother.”

“No, I will not tell you what he has kept from you. Good reasons he may have, of which I know nothing.”