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.”
“_So!_ I begin to find out things! Very good! I shall make Achille tell
me.”
“Can you make Achille speak if he wishes not to speak? Try it once, and
you will be sorry. Annette, Annette, I fear me for your future, if so
unreasonable you are!”
“Unreasonable! Grandmother! I assure you I have many good reasons for
all I do. Very unhappy I have been lately! Oh, I wish you would pity me
a little!”
“Surely Annette St. Ange needs not pity. Come, now, tell me all your
troubles,--very small are they,--and in telling they will go away.
Achille loves you--is kind to you; Jonaca is well, you are well--what
then is the matter?”
“If Achille loves me, he loves far better that pastry cook.”
“There it is--‘that pastry cook.’ You have no good right to use those
words, and well you know it. The pastry cook De Singeron is now Count de
Singeron, and goes home to take again his place in a court regiment. But
_so!_ even if he were yet a pastry cook, he is the friend of Achille; he
is loved by Achille; by you also he ought to be loved for Achille’s
sake.”
“You always take Achille’s part.”
“When Achille is right and you are wrong.”
“Thank goodness, I have done with the Count de Singeron! He left New
York yesterday, and Achille sat up all night and cried about it.”
“Have you quarrelled--you and Achille?”
“No one can quarrel with Achille. If I get angry he says only, ‘Madame
is not well,’ or ‘Madame needs a little rest,’ and then bows and leaves
me--perhaps he kisses my hand, and then I feel as if I should like
to---- Oh, grandmother, it is terrible! If he would only get angry!”
“My dear one, you know not the anger of such men as Achille. _That_
would be terrible indeed! I warn you of it. To rude words or cross words
he will never condescend; but--but--the thing he will _do_, if you love
him, your heart it will break!”
“He does not talk to me as he should. Here is this New Orleans affair! I
am not told of it, and Leonard’s duel with Mr. Gilson I knew nothing of
till it was over--and so it was really Achille who is to blame for the
trouble with Sappha.”
“Oh! Oh! The trouble with Sappha! What did you do to Sappha, Annette?”
“Nothing much--it is not worth telling you, grandmother.”
“The judge of that I will be myself.”
“I do not wish to tell you, grandmother. It is nothing.”
“Very good! I will ask Sappha. The truth she will tell me, I know.”
“I do not like that Sappha should complain of me to you, grandmother. I
will tell you myself. It was the dreadful morning of the duel. When I
awoke I found Achille had gone, and I was afraid he would be hurt, and
very angry indeed that he should mix himself up in Leonard Murray’s
disgraceful quarrel. I thought I ought to have been considered. Just
think, grandmother, how disagreeable it was likely to be for me--every
one of the De Vries coming to talk it over, and all the Cruger women,
and Fanny Curtenius, and the Sebrings, Fishers, Ogdens, and all the rest
of them. I felt as if I could not bear the shame, and then never to have
been consulted about such an affair! It was too bad.”
“That was to spare you anxiety. Achille was thoughtful for you.”
“No, he was thoughtful for himself. He knew I should not permit him to
have anything to do in such a quarrel, and he really ran away from me.”
“I advise you, say nothing like that to Achille.”
“Well, then, I was angry, very angry, and I thought I would get uncle
Gerardus to interfere--or you, grandmother. And uncle was unkind, and
told me to go home and not to disturb aunt Carlita, who had, of course,
one of her bad headaches.”
“Annette! You should not say such a thing.”
“Well, it is the truth. Aunt has a headache whenever it is inconvenient
for her to have one; and uncle said Sappha had been up all night with
her, and I was ordered not to worry Sappha or say anything unpleasant
to her. I felt then very, very angry, and I went into the house and when
I saw Sappha with her white face and injured manner I could not be
quiet. I told her all that I had been told about Leonard, and she was
what I call insolent to me, and she will not speak to me now; she goes
away if I call there, and aunt Carlita is almost as rude. This morning
she hardly noticed poor little innocent Jonaca, and she asked me to
excuse her. Sappha went to her room as soon as she saw me coming.”
“Now, then, Annette, a family quarrel I will not have. In my family we
have all had to bear and forbear, and you must make up friends with
Sappha. What, in short, did you say that so offended your cousin? Tell
me the worst.”
“Well, to be sure, I said people called Leonard a coward and usurer, and
that no respectable person would speak to him, and no good girl could be
seen with him, and that I, like the others, would have to shut my door
against him.”
“Thou cruel one! Tell me no more--and all these things thou knew to be
lies.”
“How could I know? Achille told me nothing.”
“Who did tell thee?”
“Alida de Vries, and Fanny Curtenius, and Emma Ogden, and many others.”
“And Leonard himself ate with thee on the Sunday previous to the duel,
and what he told Achille thou heard. If it seemed true and good to
Achille, could thou not also have believed? I am ashamed of thee! Thou
hast not one decent excuse. All thou said to Sappha, thou said, knowing
in thy cruel heart it was lies.”
“Grandmother, it is too bad to put all the blame on me. And I will not
now be scolded as if I was a child.”
“Then why did thou come here, deceitful one? Did thou think I would
bless thee for thy shameless cruelty? Go to thy own home, then.”
“Dear grandmother--you will make me ill. I cannot bear you to be angry.”
“Well, then, go tell thy cousin thou art sorry.”
“Yes, I will, if I can see her. I will do it for your sake, grandmother.
I will do anything, if you will forgive me. I was so miserable that
morning--if you would tell Sappha I am sorry, then perhaps she will
listen to me.”
“I will see to that. I want not to have the whole city talking of the
quarrel in the Bloommaert family. Our troubles are our own, and our own
are our quarrels. To-morrow I will talk to Sappha; and the next day thou
must make all right that is wrong. See thou do it.”
With this understanding Annette went home, and on the day appointed she
visited Sappha. In the interval madame had also visited Sappha, and with
the help of her son and daughter-in-law arranged a kind of truce between
Annette and the cousin she had injured so seriously. But now, if never
before, all three learned the strength of that unbendable will which
madame had pointed out as existing in Sappha’s nature, when as yet no
one had ever seen any evidence of it. Sappha agreed, for the sake of
preventing gossip about the Bloommaerts, to speak politely to Annette
whenever they met; and also not pointedly to avoid their meeting by
disappearing whenever Annette appeared. Beyond this concession she would
not move; and when madame proposed a family dinner at Annette’s house,
Sappha said with a positiveness even her father respected:
“I will not enter Annette’s house.”
“That is a word that cannot stand, Sappha,” answered madame, with an
almost equal positiveness.
“It will stand, grandmother,” Sappha replied, “until I enter it with
Leonard Murray. Annette threatened to shut her door against Leonard. In
so doing, she shut it against me. If Leonard should ever return, if he
should ever forgive me--he may then forgive the woman who has caused us
both so much suffering. If these unlikely things happen, we may go
_together_ to Annette’s. I will never go without him. Never!” And there
was such calm invincible determination in every word she uttered that
even madame felt it useless to try either reasoning or authority.
Indeed, Sappha won in this plain statement of her position the perfect
sympathy of her father, and he said:
“I think Sappha is quite right. The stand she has taken is unassailable.
We must make the best of what she concedes. If Sappha still regards
Leonard as her future husband, she can do no less.”
“But, my son----”
“Yes, my mother, I know what you would say, but in this case my daughter
is right. I shall stand by my daughter.”
Then Sappha went to her father, and he put his arm around her and kissed
her, and told her, “he was sure she would do the very best she could,
and so he trusted her.”
In accordance, therefore, with the promise made, and the obligation
implied by her father’s confidence, Sappha remained in the parlour when
Annette called the next day. She came in her most expansive and effusive
mood; kissed her aunt, and then in a kind of mock contrition asked
Sappha if she might be permitted to kiss her also?
“I do not deserve a kiss, Sappha, I know I do not; but I am a little
sinner to every one, and there is nothing I can do but say ‘Annette is
sorry.’ And really I am sorry. If there is anything I can do, to undo my
foolishness----”
“There is nothing, Annette.”
“It is too bad. I never dreamed of Leonard taking offence at you; every
one was saying unkind things, and I thought you ought to know. I was
really very miserable that morning. I hardly knew what I was saying. But
the idea of Leonard going away from all his friends--and you!--that
never occurred to me.”
“We will not speak of Mr. Murray. There are other things to talk of.”
“Indeed yes. Have you heard that Mary Sebring is going to Washington?
Many people say, because Captain Ellis is there.”
“How is Jonaca? Why did you not bring her?”
“I left her with grandmother. She is well enough.”
This strained social intercourse was soon invaded by news of menacing
national importance. The British fleet was being constantly increased,
the blockade very strictly enforced, and the real conflict felt to be
near at hand. The entire populace was now divided into two great
parties; one was for war, the other for peace; and the fear of disunion
of the States hung heavy over all.
On the Fourth of July the President had made a call for 93,500 militia;
and before the middle of the month alarm for the safety of New York was
so great that the men exempt from military duty formed themselves into
companies to aid in its defence. On the third of August Mayor Clinton,
in an address to the people, said: