“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.”