before him. “Father, to knock a drunken man down would be as bad as to
knock an insane man down. In both cases it would be brutal.”
“When men make themselves into brutes it is just to treat them like
brutes.”
“I never heard such nonsense! such cruel nonsense! I think Leonard did
quite right to ignore the fellow.”
“You have no business, miss, to think anything about such subjects. Go
to your mother.”
“Mother went to Nassau Street long ago.”
“I want her. Tell her to come home immediately. And I do not want you.
It is necessary for me to speak to Leonard alone.”
“Very well. I shall go for mother.” But ere she left the room she took
Leonard’s hands in hers and kissed him. There was a whispered word also,
which the judge did not hear, but the girl’s act of sympathy was
irritating enough. He drew his lips wide and tight, and as soon as
Sappha closed the door he said:
“Now, sir, what are you going to do? Gilson has been vapouring from Dan
to Beersheba about your--cowardice, and your want of patriotism; and Mr.
Ogden told me that when he instanced your frequent generous loans to the
city Gilson laughed and said you had made forty per cent. on them. ‘You
and your father,’ he added, ‘were both canny Scots, and knew cleverly
how to rub one dollar into two.’”
“Judge, my father----”
“Wait a little. Why have you not been in any of your usual resorts since
Wednesday night? It does not look right--the rascal has had a clear
field for all the scurrilous lies he chose to tell.”
“Sir, if I had known that the man was lying soberly about me, I would
surely have given him openly the name he merits. But I did not dream
that he would dare to say out of liquor what he said in liquor; for he
is a quaking coward, and as fearful as a whipped child. Others are
behind him in this bluster. Alas, my money has never brought me anything
but envy and ill-will--no matter how heartily I give it! What would you
advise me to do, sir?”
“Make the man hold his tongue.”
“How?”
The judge was silent a moment, then with a touch of scorn he answered:
“There is the law. Sue him for slander. He is said to be worth twenty
thousand dollars. Lay your damages at twenty thousand. Your friend, Mr.
Burr, will defend your case very feelingly, no doubt.”
And with some anger Leonard answered: “That course is out of the
question, sir.”
“Well, then, write a letter to the newspapers.”
“I do not propose to lend the fellow’s words so much importance.”
“Then give him his lies back generally, and particularly--give him them
back on the street, and in the guard-room, or wherever you meet him--and
make a point of meeting him, here, there, and everywhere.”
“That is what I propose to do. Then, sir, egged on by those whose cue he
is now following, he will probably challenge me. Shall I accept his
challenge?”
“I am not your conscience keeper, Leonard.”
“Put the question then, as a matter of social expediency.”
“If the social verdict is what you want, ask Achille St. Ange. He is a
good authority.”
“Once more, sir. If I lift this foolish business to the moral plane,
what do you say?”
“Zounds! Leonard, I have told you already that morally judging this
question I hold the Decalogue as a finality!” And with these words the
judge rose to his feet. It was evident he had no more to say on the
subject, and Leonard bid him “good-afternoon” and left the house. There
had been throughout the interview a want of sympathy in the judge’s
manner that insinuated suspicion, or at least uncertainty, and Leonard
was pained and offended by it. Judge Bloommaert had known him
intimately, yet he had permitted the evil tongue of a stranger to
influence his own experience. Angry tears rose unconsciously to his
eyes, and he asked himself what did it profit a man to be truthful and
generous, if any dastardly liar could smear and cancel the noblest
record? He walked up the Bowling Green with a burning heart, but Sappha
had whispered her promise to be near the statue; and he soon saw the
flutter of her white gown as she came to meet him. They entered the
enclosure and sat down on a bench facing that heroic representation of
Washington, which, made of wood, shaped and coloured to imitate the
rosiest glow of life, was the best artistic effort New York was capable
of one hundred years ago.[3] But even if Sappha and Leonard had been
conscious of its artistic defects, they cared little for them at that
hour. Their own affairs were too urgent, too perilously near to trouble
again. And though Sappha was full of sympathy and quite determined to
uphold Leonard in all he had done and was going to do, yet she at once
gave vent to her womanish fears in the essentially provoking query: “Oh,
Leonard, why did you not show yourself in the city the last three days?
You might have known people would say you were afraid of that dreadful
man.”
“Dear Sappha!” he answered, “will you, too, oblige me to explain that my
absence from my usual haunts the last three days was quite accidental;
you wanted me to go to Nassau Street with you Thursday, and your
grandmother kept us all day. You wanted me to go to the Semple house
with you Friday, and Annette and Achille kept us all day. This morning
my lawyer brought to the hotel a number of papers and accounts, and it
was noon before we had reviewed them. Then we had a meal together, and
afterwards I came to you. How could I imagine Gilson’s unmerited abuse
of me? And it seems I had no friend or acquaintance willing to take the
trouble to tell me how the man was slandering me behind my
back--everything, and every one, was against me.”
“Father told you as soon as he heard the scandal.”
“Yes, but not very kindly. There was a taste of doubt in all he said.
And he would give me no positive straight-forward advice. I feel
completely at sea as regards his wishes. I am going this evening to talk
the matter over with Achille.”
“Oh, no! Oh, no! Achille will urge you to fight the low creature. I
cannot bear that, Leonard.”
“There is not the least danger. Gilson would be a child in my hands.”
“You never know. Accidents happen--you must be out of practice, and
then, it cannot be right. I don’t believe you are afraid--I am sure you
are not--but I do not want you to fight. I am afraid--I am a mortal
coward about you. You must not accept a challenge, if he sends one. I
shall die of fear. I shall, indeed.”
“If it should become necessary to fight, I am any man’s equal. My sword
and my hands are trained to perfection. Even Achille admits my
superiority. I, personally, should not be in the least danger. In fact,
I am both with sword and pistol so much more expert than Gilson that it
would be almost cowardice, as well as cruelty, to meet him in a duel.
There could be no justice in such a trial of right or wrong--but how few
people can know this? Or knowing it, feel that it might bind me as an
honourable man to refuse the duel.”
“I pray you, Leonard, take my advice, and do not go to Achille. It would
be ‘fight, of course you must fight,’ with Achille. He would hear of
nothing else. And for my sake, Leonard, you must not fight. In the long
run, father would be angry if you did, and perhaps make it an excuse for
separating us. Leonard, promise me on your honour not to fight. If you
come to me with bloody hands I will not take them. And if you let out
life with either sword or pistol your hand will be forevermore bloody.
No water will cleanse it, no good woman will touch it, no saint in
heaven clasp it--better cut it off, and cast it from you, than stain it
for all eternity.” She was quivering with feeling, her eyes were full of
tears, and her voice had those tones of tender authority which subjugate
as well as persuade.
“My dear darling little preacher,” Leonard answered, “I promise you
these hands shall never do anything to make them unworthy to clasp
yours.” And he took her hand, pressed it firmly between his own, and
kissed his promise upon it. Then she rose smiling; they walked together
to madame’s house, and at the gate they parted.
But though somewhat comforted, Leonard did not feel as if the way before
him had been either cleared or lightened; in fact, his promise to Sappha
had in some measure closed the only apparent exit out of the dilemma. At
the moment of promising he had been carried away by his love, and had
not thought of contingencies; but as soon as he was alone “the tangle”
became more and more of a tangle; and unfortunately it was Saturday
evening; the streets were quiet, business nearly over for the week, men
generally either at home with their families, or enjoying in their
company the sail up the river or the concert on the Battery.
Not knowing what to do, or where to go, he did nothing, and went nowhere
but to his rooms in the City Hotel. He was determined to make no false
step. Hurry in this matter might have calamitous consequences. Out of
just such false, wicked words lifelong tragedies had often come. And
there was Sappha--he must consider Sappha before himself.
The next day being Sabbath, he went to the Garden Street Church in the
morning and to Trinity Church in the afternoon. In both houses he met
acquaintances, whose recognition of him appeared to be cooler and more
constrained than usual. But then he knew that he was suspicious, and the
change was probably only an imaginary one. When he left Trinity he
walked northward to the Semple house, and on the way met at least two
painful incidents, which were not imagination: When opposite the City
Hall Park he saw Doctor Stevens and his wife approaching him, and as
soon as they perceived Leonard they crossed Broadway and entered the
park. And as this movement took them off the direct way to their home
Leonard was justified in believing they had made it to avoid a meeting
with him. The circumstance pained and angered him. He turned quickly
into Chambers Street, and saw Mr. Leonard Fisher coming towards him.
Now, Mr. Fisher was one of the officers of the Washington Benevolent
Society, of which society Leonard had been the most active member. On
business of relief and charity he had come constantly in contact with
Mr. Fisher, and always in a temper of friendly courtesy. He expected
nothing but a kindly greeting from him, but when he was half a block
distant Mr. Fisher crossed the street, and as Leonard passed he kept
his eyes stubbornly set on some object in front of him.
Burning with a sense of wrong and injustice, Leonard hastened forward
and threw himself upon Achille’s friendship. Here he was not
disappointed. Achille entered into his feelings and espoused his cause
with complete understanding and ardent sympathy. He acknowledged Francis
de Mille had said something of the slander to him on the previous day,
but that he had laughed away the words as utterly preposterous, and De
Mille had let the subject drop. “But,” he added, “it can be dropped no
longer. Judge Bloommaert is right. The rascal has had a clear field too
long--now, he must be made to acknowledge his lies, as lies; and then
hold his tongue about your affairs forever.”
“What is to be done, Achille?”
“There is but one way--for a man of honour. You must challenge him
immediately.”
“I suppose so--but Sappha is distressed at the idea. I fear I shall lose
her if I do. And the judge is against the practice.”
“Those questions come afterwards. Women know not their own minds. If you
fail to punish this ill-tongued fellow, Sappha, in her heart, will
despise you--and the judge also. Take my word for that--so will all
honourable men. You remember that affair in New Orleans? Duplicate it.”
This last remark seemed to give a sudden light and hope to Leonard. He
smiled and said cheerfully: “That would be sufficient; thank you,
Achille. Now then, where am I most likely to meet Gilson? Do you know
his haunts or the places he most frequents?”
“We can easily find them out. Our host of the City Hotel will doubtless
be able to give us information. Look here, Leonard, I have the plan!”
and he took paper and pencil from his pocket, and the two bent over it
in consultation for about half an hour. Then Annette joined them, and
they went to the dinner table, and afterwards Achille told Annette the
dilemma into which Leonard had fallen. He said nothing of a duel,
however; neither did Annette, a circumstance which would have convinced
any woman that she anticipated that result, and was carefully pondering
it. That Leonard stayed with them all night, and that Achille went out
with him early in the morning, was to her substantial confirmation of
her suspicions.
Privately, she was very angry. Why should her husband relate himself and
his spotless honour with a man whose character had been so shamefully
defamed? It was in Annette’s eyes a piece of Quixotic imprudence. She
thought Achille ought to have remembered that he had a wife and
daughter, and that, at least, her approval should have been asked. She
said to herself that it was not unlikely there was some truth in all Mr.
Gilson had asserted. Men so available as Leonard Murray were likely to
be womanish; and he was always dangling after Sappha Bloommaert. Gilson
had been talking for three days. It was strange, indeed, that Leonard
had not stopped such imputations at once. “I don’t believe he was
ignorant of them,” she said, and in her passion she uttered the words
aloud: “He knew all about Gilson’s abuse, but he thought the man would
grow weary, or go away, or that Achille or some of his friends, would
lift the quarrel for him. And when none of these conveniences have come,
then he has sought out my husband. Oh, yes! he knew Achille was always
ready for a fight--it is a shame! I am not going to permit it; Leonard
Murray must conduct his own quarrels.”
To such thoughts she nursed her surmised wrongs all day; and as Achille
did not return home until very late she had become hysterical under the
pressure of their certainty. Nor did her husband’s evasive carelessness
allay her anxiety; she was not consoled by his smiles, nor by the light
kiss with which he advised her “to sleep and forget her imaginary
fears.” This course was not possible to Annette; she lay awake
considering and planning until the dawn. Then, when she ought to have
been on the alert, she fell into the dead sleep of utter mental and
physical weariness.
In this interval Achille arose, dressed with some care, and calling
Annette’s maid, left with her his “remembrances for madame, and the
assurance that he would be home for dinner.” Annette did not believe the
message. She asked for the hour, and decided there was yet a possibility
of finding her uncle Bloommaert at his home. While she hastily dressed,
her carriage was prepared, and she reached the Bowling Green house just
as the judge was descending the steps. She arrested him midway. “Uncle,”
she sobbed, “I am in trouble about Achille. I want you to help me.”
“What is the matter with Achille? Have you been scolding? Has he run
away from you?”
“I cannot bear jokes this morning, uncle. I think Achille has gone to
fight a duel.”
“Nonsense!”
“Yes, I am sure he is going to fight that low creature, Horace Gilson.
You know----”
“Twofold nonsense. He has nothing to do with the man. That is Leonard
Murray’s business.”
“But Leonard came to Achille on Sunday night. He was full of shame and
anger about every one passing him without recognition; and I am sure he
must have deserved the slight, or Doctor and Mrs. Stevens and Mr. Fisher
would not have done so--on a Sunday, just coming out of church, too,
when people ought to feel friendly.”
“Come, come, Annette, this is all foolishness, and I am in no mood for
it this morning. If Leonard has been insulted, he knows how to right
himself--and that, without Achille’s help. Gilson is a low, scurrilous
creature, and I hope Leonard will give him a lesson.”
“Uncle! Uncle! You must not go away without helping me.”
“Good gracious, Annette! What am I to do? What can I do? If Achille
wishes to stand by Leonard in this matter, nothing I can say will
prevent it. And, by George, I do not intend to say anything! As for
Achille fighting Gilson, that is absurd. Leonard Murray is no special
favourite of mine, but I am sure he is a young man who can do his own
fighting, and who will let no one else do it for him. Leonard will fight
Gilson, if fighting is necessary.”
“But, uncle, you ought not to put me off in this way. I shall go to
grandmother and tell her.”
“Well, Annette, that is a dreadful threat--but you will find your
grandmother no more sympathetic, in this case, than I am.”
“_So!_ Perhaps, however, you will attend to what aunt Carlita says. Come
into the house and let us ask her.”
“I will not waste any more time, Annette; nor will I sanction you
annoying your aunt this morning. She has had one of her worst headaches
all night long, and has just fallen on sleep. Do not attempt to awaken
her. And you must say nothing unpleasant to Sappha. She is worried
already, and she has been up with her mother all night. Do have
self-control enough to keep your ridiculous fears to yourself--or if you
cannot, then go to your grandmother, or better still, go home. Home is
the proper place for foolish women, full of their own fears and
fancies.”
With these words he went down the steps, and Annette watched him
angrily. For a moment or two she considered his advice to “go to her
grandmother”; then suddenly, with a passionate motion of her head, she
lifted the knocker and let it fall several times with unmistakable
decision.
Sappha, who was busy in the back parlour, ran hastily into the hall, and
when she saw Annette advanced to meet her with a lifted finger and a
“hush!” upon her lips. “Mother has had such a bad night,” she said
softly, “and now she is sleeping. Come in here, Annette, as quietly as
possible. What is the matter? I hope Jonaca is well. Why, Annette, you
are crying!”
“Yes, and it is you who ought to be crying! Yet you appear perfectly
unconcerned.”
“But why ought I to be crying? You know mother has had these headaches
all her life. This attack is no worse than usual.”
“_Mother! Mother!_ I am not thinking of your mother! I am thinking of
Leonard Murray.”
“Is anything wrong with Leonard?”
“I do not know what you call wrong. The whole city considers him
shamefully wrong! No one will speak to him! He is disgraced beyond
everything! I am ashamed, I am burning with anger, to think that he
might have been through you connected with my family--I mean the De
Vries family. And I am distracted about Achille. He came to Achille on
Sunday night--”
“Who came to Achille?”
“Leonard Murray, of course. And he almost cried about the way people
had insulted him--coming out of church, too. And, I suppose, indeed, I
am sure, that Achille promised to help him, and stand by him, and fight
that man Gilson for him----”
“Stop, Annette! You are not speaking the truth now. You are, at least,
under a false impression. If Gilson is to be fought, Leonard will fight
him. Make no mistake about that. Leonard is no coward; and a man need
not be foolhardy to prove himself brave--only cowards are afraid to be
called cowards. My father has said that very often.”
“And pray what comes of such ideas? When a man is insulted they lead to
nothing. I have just been talking to my uncle Gerardus, and he thinks
precisely as I do. To let a man go up and down calling you a thief and a
coward, and say nothing, and do nothing, is neither moral nor
respectable. That is Leonard Murray’s position. And I think it a shame
that I have to be kept on the rack for two days about your lover. I
never troubled you about Achille; and I am not well, and when I am sick
then dear little Jonaca is sick--and I have had to get up this morning
hours before the proper time and leave my house, and my child about your
lover, just because he cannot manage his own troubles; troubles, also,
that he has made for himself.”
“You do not know what you are saying, Annette. Your temper carries you
beyond truth. Leonard did not make this trouble----”
“Oh, yes, he did. His pride and self-conceit are intolerable. His
patronage of people is offensive. And Achille and I have often noticed
how purse-proud he was----”
“It is a shame to say such things, Annette. You know they are
slander--wicked slander! No man was ever less concerned about his
wealth, in fact, he----”
“Oh, we can let that subject drop--we all know how he spreads abroad his
money. I am speaking now of his cowardice. Every one is speaking of it;
rich and poor alike. He is a byword on the Exchange. He will never have
another invitation to any respectable house. Even I must shut my doors
against him--and, to be sure, no nice girl will ever be seen with him
again.”
“All that you are saying is cruelly false, Annette; you are trying to
pain and terrify me----”
“What good would that do me? I am only telling you what you ought to
know.”
“But why? Why are you telling me?”
“Because I am angry at you. Why did you advise Leonard to come to
Achille for help?”
“I did not advise him to come to Achille. How could Achille help
Leonard? The idea!”
“I say plainly that Achille is now seeking that man Gilson, and if he
meets him before Leonard does--which he is sure to do--he will challenge
him at once.”
“How ridiculous! Achille has no quarrel with Gilson. Why should he
challenge him?”
“Because of the things he has charged Leonard with. And Achille’s honour
is so sensitive, and he is so passionate, the dispute will end in
Achille making it his own quarrel. Then he will fight Gilson, before
Leonard even succeeds in meeting him.”
“I hope he will!” said Sappha with affected satisfaction.
“You wicked girl! To say such a thing to a wife and a mother! Oh, now, I
think you are none too good for Leonard Murray! By all means marry
him--only for decency’s sake take yourselves out of New York! There are
places where wealth will cloak cowardice. England, for instance!”
“All these stories you tell about Leonard are downright lies. Yes, I
shall marry him, and we shall stay here--in New York. Do you understand?
And if you were not insane with temper I would promise myself never to
speak to you again, Annette St. Ange. Cowardice, indeed! You, yourself,
are at this moment suffering from cowardice. Your fear of Achille being
hurt has made you suspicious, unjust, slanderous. And Leonard and I must
endure your shameful words--a woman has no redress. I am going to leave
you. You have willingly wounded and insulted me--without any reason at
all. I hope you will be sorry for it----”
“I am sorry, Sappha. Do not go away. I am sorry for you--that is the
reason of my temper; and it is Leonard, not you, I am angry at.”
“We will not name Leonard. If he is all you say, he is not fit for you
to talk about.”
“No, indeed!”
“I think you had better go home, Annette. You are making yourself, and
me, also, ill; for nothing.”
“For nothing! That is all the thanks I receive for getting up so early
and coming to warn and advise you.”
“I wish you had not come.”
“I shall go now and tell grandmother. She will perhaps be able to make
you see things properly. I hope you will not make yourself sick about
Leonard----”
“It is not my way.”
“If a girl’s lover turns out badly, she ought not to cry about him--it
is neither moral nor respectable. I say this, Sappha, politely and
kindly.”
“Thank you, politely and kindly, Annette.”
“I hope Leonard may come out of this affair better than we think.”
“Thank you. I hope Achille may come out of this affair better than we
think.”
The clash of the front door emphasised this provoking bit of courtesy,
and Sappha flew like a bird to her room, that she might conceal the
tumult of outraged feelings warring within her. And then as soon as she
was alone all her anger fled from Annette to Leonard. She accused him
with bitter unreason; for at this hour she was insensible to everything
but the painfully humiliating results of what she still mentally called
“his quarrel” with Horace Gilson. And, oh, how Annette had hurt her! For
Annette had not yet learned how to endure; and they who can bear
nothing are themselves unbearable.
For two hours she gave full sway to her insurgent feelings; but at the
last every mental struggle ended in her blaming Leonard. Leonard, for
her sake, ought to have avoided such a degrading quarrel--Leonard ought
to have faced it the first thing the following morning, instead of that
he had trifled away the whole day in Nassau Street, and the next day at
Annette’s, and now Annette felt that she had the right to call his
courtesy cowardice.