“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!”
To this last exclamation Sappha closed the door. She walked slowly downstairs, she lingered, she seemed unable to come to any decision. But in the midst of her uncertainty she listened to her heart, and what her heart said to her was this: “It can never be wrong to be kind.” So strengthened, and even counselled, by this suggestion, she went back to her lover. He was walking about the room in a fever of self-torment, and as the door opened he turned inquiringly. And it was the loveliest of Sapphas he saw. She met him in all her charms; her eyes had a sunny radiance, her mouth was all smiles, she looked as if there was not a care in the wide world--a healing, lovesome woman, wonderfully sweet and comforting.
“Dearest one,” she said softly, “sit here beside me. Let me have your hand, Leonard, and listen to me. My mother says this is the very worst time in all the year to speak to my father. He is so full of public affairs, and you know, just now, they ought to come before any private ones. Ought they not, dear?”
“Yes, of course, but----”
“Well, there can be no ‘but’ for a few days. Christmas is Christ’s feast--we cannot presume to put ourselves before Christmas; and then come all the honours, and feasts, and public rejoicings for our dear country. You would not put yourself, nor even Sappha, before America, her honour and freedom? And so I think, with mother, we must wait until after the New Year before we say a word about ourselves. Dear, a few months, a few weeks ago, you were so happy with my assurance only. Is it less sweet now than then?”
And as she spoke more and more tenderly, aiding her words with loving glances and the light pressure of her little hand, softer thoughts flowed in, and the enchanter, love, usurped the place of every evil passion. Leonard finally promised to be happy, and to let others be happy; and he kissed this agreement on her lips. Alas!
“Man, only, clogs with care his happiness, And while he should enjoy his part of bliss, With thoughts of what might be, destroys what is.” DRYDEN.
And when Sappha had watched and smiled him out of sight she turned in with a sigh and a sudden depression of spirit. She had won Leonard to her wish and way, but anger is always self-immolation, and for a time at least Leonard had fallen in her esteem, for she was compelled to disapprove of much that he had said; and the more we judge, the less we love.
The whole affair seemed trifling to Mrs. Bloommaert; it was an annoyance in the midst of events of far more importance, and had to be got out of the way--that was all. But to Sappha it was different. She had forgiven Leonard, but unhappy is the lover whom a woman forgives; and Sappha was herself quite conscious that some virtue had gone out of her life. It was not a little event to Sappha, for there are no little events with the heart.
Fortunately Annette and St. Ange came in, and Sappha was compelled to meet them on the level of their joyous temper. They had finished decorating madame’s house, and their arms were full of box and feathery hemlock and the blooms of many-coloured everlasting flowers and great bunches of the vermilion berries of the darling pyracantha shrub. They were tingling with the Christmas joy, and their ringing laughter, their jokes and snatches of song, their quips and mock reproofs of their own mirth, filled the house with the electric atmosphere of Merry Christmas. Negroes were chattering among them, raising ladders, and running messages, and the tapping of the little hammers, and the cries of admiration as the room grew to a fairy bower, was far better than the music of many instruments--it was the music of the heart.
“We ought to have had holly,” said St. Ange. “There is always holly in Christmas decorations.”
“The pyracantha berries are just as pretty,” answered Mrs. Bloommaert, “and the pyracantha is a rapid grower, and can be cut with impunity--even with profit to the bush; but to cut holly! that is rather a cruel business. It is almost as bad as flinging the Christmas tree into the streets when it has done its whole duty.”