Part 9

His intercourse with the two Bloommaert families was, however, the most important of all his life’s engagements. With other families he had frequent, but casual and intermittent, meetings; he was at the close of this year in one or other of the Bloommaert households every day. With Madame Jonaca he had formed a most affectionate alliance; he asked her counsel, and followed it; he told her all the pleasant news of that society which she still loved; he took her frequently out in his sleigh that she might see any unusual parade of the troops or militia; he brought her all the newspapers, and delighted himself and madame—as well as Annette—by reading aloud the numerous passages he had marked in them, as likely to interest both women. He came in when he was cold, to be warmed in Madame’s cosey parlour; when he was lonely he went there for company; when he was sad for comfort.

In the Bowling Green home he had a footing quite as sure, though on a different foundation. In this family it was the judge who favoured him above all others. If St. Ange came into the room his face brightened, he put aside the paper or pamphlet he was reading, and turned to the young man for conversation. He went with him to Dr. Smith’s Club, and said it was the only sensible club he had ever visited. If the day was mild the two men took a brisk walk together on the Battery, and talked politics or science, and sometimes law, if the judge was engaged with any very interesting case; and if all these sources of intercourse were too few, out came the chess board, and in silent moves and monosyllabled conversation the evening passed away.

His relations with Mrs. Bloommaert and Sappha were equally friendly and familiar. Very early in his visits to the Bowling Green house he had assured himself that the lovely Sappha had no heart to give—that she was entirely devoted to his friend Leonard Murray. This conviction had at first given him a pang, for not only Sappha’s beauty, but her beautiful disposition, had moved him to an admiration he had never before felt; and he had told himself that to win such an angel for his wife, with the entry into such a perfect home, and the alliance of characters so lovable as Judge Bloommaert and Sappha’s mother, would be as much of heaven on earth as any man could hope to receive.

For a week he had nursed this charming illusion, then something happened—a look, a movement, a passing touch or whisper—one, or all of these things opened his eyes; he felt convinced that Leonard had some certain right that he could not honourably infringe upon—and honour was the first, the dominating, sentiment that moved Achille’s thoughts and words and deeds. All was not fair in love to Achille St. Ange; so he deliberately put down his love for Sappha; denied it perpetually to his craving heart; and taught himself to look upon her as his friend’s beloved and his own friend and sister.

As a general thing Leonard understood this, though there had never been a word uttered between them regarding Sappha. Leonard was immersed in business of various kinds, but he quickly satisfied himself that he had nothing to fear from St. Ange’s admiration of Sappha. The three were often together in the evenings, and nearly as often Annette made the fourth. Music, conversation, occasionally an informal cotillion, reading aloud, or recitations passed the happy hours, while the judge listened, watched, corrected, or advised, and Mrs. Bloommaert moved through all their entertainments, smiling the blessing of innocent happiness upon them.

The first shadow on this charming companionship fell about Christmas. It came in the form of a suspicion, not of Sappha’s love, but of the judge’s simple good-will. He had never pretended any friendship for Leonard, but during the past month he had treated him with a civility that left no cause for offence. Suddenly one evening Leonard became possessed with the idea that the judge’s demonstrative liking for St. Ange was not as real as it appeared; that, in fact, it was a liking affected in a great measure for the purpose of making him feel the real indifference of his own treatment. He could hardly tell what circumstance had evoked this suspicion, but when he began to ponder the idea it grew to undreamed of proportions. He sat up nearly all night, busy with this profitless and miserable consideration, and memory brought him one proof after another to pillar his suspicion. And the conclusion of the matter was that Sappha’s father wished her to marry St. Ange, and that in such case, even if the war was over before three years had passed, it would be in the power of the judge to forbid their marriage, as Sappha would not be of age for nearly three years. Then, when Sappha was of age, would she marry him without her father’s consent? It was doubtful. Then again, might not three years more of antagonism, showing itself in every little daily household event or pleasure, wear out the tenderest, truest love? In this restless, suspicious temper he told himself that it was almost certain to do so. The fate of love is, that it always sees too little or too much. All true lovers have this madness, this enchantment, where the reason seems bound. For in love there is no prudence that can help a man, no reason that can assist him, and none that he would have. He prefers the madness which convinces him his love is more than common love. Let vulgar love know moderation, he loves out of all reason, and finds his wretchedness pleasing.

Now jealousy is only good when she torments herself, and Leonard, sitting up and losing sleep to indulge her, deserved the restless pain which he evoked. It troubled him so effectually the following day that he found it difficult to perform the work he had so enthusiastically undertaken—that of assisting in the decorations at the City Hall for the great naval ball to be given to the officers of the war frigates in New York on New Year’s Eve. He was impatient for night to come; then he would go to Judge Bloommaert’s again and take good heed of every look and word, and so resolve the question that so much troubled him.

Well, we generally get the evil we expect, and so Leonard was not disappointed. There had been, as it happened, a slightly ruffled conversation during the evening meal, about an invitation just received from St. Ange. He had taken a box at the Park Theatre, and Madame Bloommaert had promised to go under his escort to see the final representation of the capture of the Macedonian by the United States. There was to be also a patriotic sketch and a farce called “Right and Wrong.” The polite little note added that there was plenty of room in the box for the judge and for Mrs. and Miss Bloommaert, and begged them to accept its convenience.

The judge said “he would not go.” He furthermore said, “he did not like his mother being seen so much with that young Frenchman; people would make remarks about it.”

“Gerardus!”

“Just as if she had no son, or grandson, to take her to see things.”

“You never do take her anywhere but to church, Gerardus; and as for Peter, I do not suppose he ever remembers her; he trusts to you and you to him. I am sure St. Ange has given her a great deal of pleasure that she would not have had from you or Peter.”

“I do not approve of Christmas kept in theatres and such places. What would your father say, Carlita, about going to the theatre on Christmas night? We have always kept Christmas at church, and as a religious festival.”

“This is a different Christmas. It is a patriotic festival, as well as a religious one, this year. Mother naturally wants to see the sailors and the battle transparency, and hear the songs and feel the throbbing of the great heart of the city. You ought to go with her.”

“Who taught you to say ‘ought’ to me, Carlita?”

“My heart and my conscience.”

“Well, if you get behind your conscience, I am dumb. Go with mother—if you wish.”

“No. Mr. St. Ange goes with her. You must go with Sappha and I, or—”

“I am busy. I cannot go.”

“I am sorry. I must ask Leonard Murray then.”

“Oh, what diplomats women are! I suppose I must go, but I do wish Mr. St. Ange would be less attentive to my family.”

“He may yet be more so. Annette considers herself as—”

“There, there, wife! Don’t say it, and then you will not have to unsay it.”

This refusal to listen to Annette’s considerations put a stop to the discussion. The judge took a book of travels and affected to be lost in its matter and marvels, and Mrs. Bloommaert found it impossible to get him to resume the conversation and finish it with more satisfactory decision. Finally she said: “I do wish, Gerardus, you would talk to us a little. There are many things I want to ask you about.”

“Not to-night, Carlita.”

“Of course we are going to the naval ball, and preparations specially for it must be made. Why do you not answer me, Gerardus?”

“My dear Carlita, no husband ever repented of having held his tongue. I am in no mood to talk to-night.”

“You promised Sappha that pearl necklace.”

“Hum-m-m!”

“And I cannot lend her mine, as I shall want to wear it.”

There was no answer, but then silence answers much; and Mrs. Bloommaert, considering her husband’s face, felt that she had begun to win. He was evidently pondering the position, for he was not reading. During this critical pause Leonard Murray entered. He was aware at once of the constrained atmosphere, and with the egotism of jealousy he attributed it to his sudden appearance. For once he was really de trop. He interrupted an important decision, and Mrs. Bloommaert was annoyed. Under cover of his entry, and the slight commotion it caused, the judge resumed his reading. “I must ask your indulgence, Mr. Murray,” he said politely, “but I am just now accompanying Mr. James Bruce in search of the sources of the Nile; and it is not easy to live between Egypt and the Bowling Green.”

Leonard said he understood, and would be sorry to interrupt a mental trip so much to Judge Bloommaert’s taste. But he did not understand—not at all. He was mortified at his reception, and he had not that domestic instinct which would have taught him that the constraint he felt was of a family nature and did not include him. In his present sensitive, jealous mood he believed the judge was reading because he preferred reading to his society—that Mrs. Bloommaert was silent and restless because, in some way, he had interfered; and that Sappha’s shy, abortive efforts to restore a cheerful, confidential feeling were colder and more perfunctory than he had ever before seen them.

In this latter estimate he was partly correct. Sappha was as eager and anxious about the visit to the theatre and the naval ball as it was natural a girl of eighteen years old should be, and Leonard had interrupted discussion at a critical point; had put off settlements about dresses and various other important items—and besides this fault had brought into the room with him an atmosphere very different from his usual light-hearted mood, explaining itself by interesting political or social news. For once he was quite absorbed in Leonard Murray, and then nobody seemed to care about Leonard Murray. Mrs. Bloommaert asked him questions about the decorations, and Sappha about the people who were assisting with them, and he simply answered, without adding any of his usual amusing commentaries.

In a short time Mrs. Bloommaert left the room, and as the judge appeared to be lost in the sources of the Nile Leonard was practically alone with Sappha. He first asked her to practise some songs with him, but she answered, “The parlour is unwarmed and unlighted, Leonard, and I do not want to take cold, just when the holidays are here.”

“Certainly not,” he said, but the refusal was a fresh offence. Why had Sappha not ordered fire and light to be put in the parlour? She usually did. Something was interesting her more than his probable visit—what could it be? Not the theatre—not the naval ball. Sappha was used to such affairs; he had never known them put the whole house out of temper before. For by this time he had decided the atmosphere was one of bad temper, without considering for a moment that it was possibly his own bad temper.

Suddenly he rose and said he must go; and no one asked him to remain longer. Sappha felt the constraint of her father’s presence, and did not accompany him to the hall. Mrs. Bloommaert was opening and shutting drawers and doors upstairs, and the judge only gave to his “Good-night, judge,” a civil equivalent in “Good-night, Mr. Murray.” As he was leaving the house he saw Mr. St. Ange approaching it, and instead of advancing to meet him he turned southward towards Stone Street. Of this cowardly step he was soon ashamed, and he went back and forced himself to pass the Bloommaert house. It had a more happy aspect. Some one had stirred the logs, and the dancing flames showed through the dropped white shades. There was a movement also in the room; the sound of voices, and once he could have sworn he heard Sappha laugh. Did he not know her laugh among a thousand? It was like the tinkle of a little bell.

For at least a quarter of an hour he tormented himself with the pictures his imagination drew of what was passing behind that illuminated screen. Then he went gloomily to his room and sat down with jealousy, and began to count up his suspicions. A miserable companion is jealousy! And a miserable tale of wrongs she gave him to reckon up. But at least he reached one truth in that unhappy occupation—it was, that the engagement between Sappha and himself ought to be immediately made public. All their little misunderstandings, all his humiliations, had come through their relationship being kept secret. He felt that he was missing much of the pleasure of his wooing; certainly he was deprived of the éclat that it ought to have brought him. It was all wrong! All wrong! And it must be put right at once. He promised himself he would see to that necessity the first thing he did in the morning.

With this promise his insurgent heart suffered him to sleep a little, yet sleep did him no good. He awoke with the same consuming fever of resentment. He could not eat, nor yet drink; he had no use for anything but thought: jealous thought, with that eternal hurry of the soul that will not suffer rest—thoughts of love and sorrow, starting in every direction from his unhappy heart, to find out some hope, and meeting only suspicion, anger, and despair. It was his first experience of that egotistical malady,

“whose torment, no men sure But lovers and the damned endure.”

And he was astonished and dismayed at his suffering.

But few men suffer patiently; they are usually quick for their own relief, and accordingly very early the following morning Leonard made an excuse for calling on Sappha. Mrs. Bloommaert had gone, however, to Nassau Street, and he did not need to urge the excuse prepared. He launched at once into his wrongs and his sufferings; and indeed the latter had left some intelligible traces. Sappha was moved by his pale face and troubled eyes to unusual sympathy; but this did not suffice. He felt that the only way to prevent a recurrence of the night’s suffering was to insist upon a public acknowledgment of his rights as her accepted lover, and he told Sappha this in no equivocal words.

She was distressed by his passion and evident distraction, but she would not listen for a moment to his proposal to explain their position to her father that night. And his eager entreaties finally roused in her something like anger. “You are too selfish, Leonard,” she said, “and please do not make your love for me the excuse for your selfishness. You must be happy, no matter who is unhappy. Could you have picked out in the whole year a time more unpropitious, more inopportune, than this very week? Every person who has any patriotic feeling gives up all their interest to our country for the next few days. Christmas and New Year’s holidays have claims we cannot forget. It is my father’s holiday, his great holiday, when he throws all business cares from his mind. My mother has all manner of little domesticities and household hopes and fears and duties to attend to. Have at least a little patience! Wait until the New Year’s feast is over.”

“And give St. Ange another ten days full of delightful opportunities.”

“St. Ange! What do you mean, Leonard? Surely you are not jealous of St. Ange. He has given you no cause whatever.”

“At first he behaved with all the honour imaginable; but lately I have seen a change. He is no longer influenced by a belief in our engagement. Naturally he thinks, if it had existed, you or I would have shown some signs of so close a relationship. I have been held back on every hand, and you have not been as seclusive and exclusive as you might have been.”

“Oh, Leonard! How can you?”

“You have been very kind and familiar with St. Ange. He comes here quite as much as I do. He goes out with your grandmother and mother, and often your father is seen walking on the Battery with him. He never walks with me. I do not like it. It is too much suffering! I cannot endure it.”

“I heard mother come in. I will go and speak to her, Leonard.”

“Do. She must see how reasonable I am.”

But the moment Sappha entered her mother’s room she was met by a rebuff. Mrs. Bloommaert just looked in her face, and understood; and before she had spoken half a dozen words she said with an air of resolve and annoyance. “Now, Sappha, I will hear nothing about Leonard. He has been quite unreasonable lately, and he was in a bad temper last night. Oh, yes, he was! I know bad temper when I see it.”

“But, mother, this is important. He is really determined.”

“Do not tell me what he is determined on, for I shall certainly repeat all you say to your father.”

“He wants, dear mother, he wants—”

“Just what he cannot have; what he has no right to have—yet. He promised you to wait. I know he did. Do not tell me anything, Sappha, because I shall feel it my duty to tell your father all you say—just at this time too! It is too bad! It is exceedingly selfish and inconsiderate; and I am astonished at Leonard Murray.”

“I do not think you ought to call Leonard ‘selfish and inconsiderate.’ He is very unhappy.”

“When all the city is happy and rejoicing! Can he not put aside his own happiness for a while and rejoice with every one else? We are going to keep Christmas for the Christ’s sake; we are going to honour the brave men who have done our country such honour; we are going, all of us, to think of our country and forget ourselves; and Leonard must take this very time to urge some bit of pleasure that will be his, and his only, that no one else must share—”

“You forget me, mother.”

“No. I am sure you are no party to anything that is so selfishly personal. I think you would put the general good, and the general happiness, before your own satisfaction.”

Then Sappha answered, “I hope you judge me rightly, mother; and I will be very firm with Leonard. Yet he seems so miserable.”

“He is nursing some silly idea that in some way or other he is being wronged. This notion blots all other ideas out of recognition; he is, as I said before, suffering from selfishness; and selfishness is the worst-tempered of all vices.”

“At any rate, he is wretched. Come and speak to him, mother.”

“No, I will not. I have other things to do. Of course he is wretched! he ought to be, for bad temper, fortunately, bites at both ends. My advice to you is, be a little cross yourself. Dear me! How tiresome men in love are!”