“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.”