“And small heed we take of such things; we even count them of chance; yet, how often that which flowers to-day grows from very old roots.”
“Grandmother, I want two new dresses. Can I have them?”
“Stuffs of every kind are very dear, Annette.”
“Only two, grandmother.”
“And Madame Lafarge’s charges for making dresses are extravagant--the making is the worst.”
“It has to be done, grandmother.”
“Yes--but if you will turn to your Bible, Annette, you will find that the woman whose ‘price was above rubies’ made her own dresses.”[1]
“Indeed, grandmother, you need only glance at any picture of a Bible woman to see that. Dresses without shape, without style--and as for _the fit_!” And Annette could only explain the enormity of the fit by throwing up her hands in expressive silence.
“If you get the dresses, then a new bonnet will be wanted.”
“Yes, a bonnet would be a necessity; also some of those sweet furs that come from South America--so soft and grey are they. Oh, the ugliest woman looks pretty in them!”
“You are extortionate, Annette.”
“Grandmother, I have not yet asked for a grand piano.”
Then madame laughed. And Annette laid her soft cheek against madame and kissed her good-night. But though she walked delicately and almost on tip-toes to her own room, there was an air of triumph in the poise of her pretty head. She set the candle down by the mirror and looked complaisantly at herself.
“I shall get what I want,” she said softly. “I always do.”
CHAPTER FIVE
_A Chain of Causes_
It had been a stirring summer in New York, and the year was now closing with a remarkable month. For October had been signalised by two naval victories, the British war frigate _Frolic_ having been captured by Captain Jones, and the _Macedonian_ by Commodore Decatur, and as the successful commanders were expected in New York during December, great preparations were being made for their entertainment, the more so, as Captain Hull, the hero of the _Constitution_, would also be present.
Considering these things, Annette’s request for two new gowns was a modest one; yet so many women were just then acquiring new gowns that it was with difficulty she succeeded in getting hers ready for Christmas Day. Achille had helped her to select her ball dress, and it was so lovely that she felt no fear of being on this occasion eclipsed by Sappha’s gayer garments. That Achille had been consulted in its selection need not imply more than a rather intimate friendship; for the young man had become a familiar friend of a great many families. His sad history, his unusual beauty and grace, his many social accomplishments, and his faultless manners and dress, had given him almost by acclamation a very prominent position in the fashionable circles of New York. The Dutch claimed him on his mother’s side, the French on his father’s, and New Yorkers on the ground that he had of choice elected to become a citizen of New York. No gathering was considered complete without his presence; the most select clubs sought his association; and among those men who loved fine horses and skilful fencing, he was acknowledged an incomparable judge and master.
But though he accepted this homage, he did not seek it; nor did it seem to afford him much pleasure. Those most familiar with his habits knew that he very much preferred the society of the Friendly Club, which met in the parlour of Dr. Smith’s house in Pine Street. Here, with young Washington Irving, Charles Brockden Brown, and other literary and learned men, he passed the hours that pleased him most. Nor was this his only social peculiarity. He formed a close friendship with the exile Aguste Louis de Singeron, the most famous pastry cook and confectioner in New York; also an ex-courtier and ex-warrior of Louis the Sixteenth: a little man of the most undaunted spirit, chivalrous and courteous, at once the most polite and the most passionate of men. Every day St. Ange might be found sitting in De Singeron’s neat little shop on William Street. Sometimes their conversation seemed to be sufficient for their entertainment; sometimes a chess board lay on the narrow counter between them. Fine ladies passed in and out, but St. Ange was never disturbed by their advent; and if a game was in progress no smiling invitation allured him to leave it unfinished. It will be seen then, that in spite of his gentle air and suave manners, he had a will sufficiently strong to insure him his own way.
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.