Sappha was sure that her mother would do so. “My father is always uncertain,” she said, “but I think he will go if I ask him.”

In the morning, however, there was no question of naming the subject. The judge had come home late the previous night, and even then was suffering all the premonitory symptoms of an attack of gout. Sappha was accustomed to these evil periods, and quite aware that all Leonard’s plans were useless. For no one but Mrs. Bloommaert and the two negro men who nursed the judge were likely to see him; or, if they were wise, to want to see him; and Sappha was compelled to add disappointment to the already restless dissatisfaction which had somehow invaded the love which Leonard really bore her.

The morning interview was, moreover, very hurried. Leonard was going to court to hear Mr. Burr argue a certain case, and though he did not tell Sappha this, she felt that Mr. Burr was the cause of her lover’s unusual haste. Before he knew this objectionable person he had never worried about time; now he was constantly consulting his watch. She felt as if their love had been mingled with some element that robbed it of its immortal beauty and bound it to the slavery of hours and minutes; nay, she could not have defined her sense of loss, even thus far, accurately; she was only wistfully conscious of a change that was not a gain.

Leonard came early in the morning, and was bitterly disappointed to find that his little plan was absolutely abortive. The judge was suffering much, and the subject had not even been named to him. Mrs. Bloommaert, indeed, rather fretfully interrupted Sappha in the midst of her delivery of Leonard’s invitation. “The theatre!” she ejaculated. “If you were in your father’s room for ten minutes you would not have the courage to name the place. I am sorry, of course, but theatre-going is out of the question. Leonard does seem so unfortunate!”

“Do not be unjust, mother; don’t you think it is father that is unfortunate? And then his misfortune makes you suffer, and I also; for I did want to go to the theatre on Friday night so much. I suppose Annette will be disappointed also, for of course she cannot go with Achille alone. They were, no doubt, calculating on your presence.”

“It cannot be helped, Sappha. Your father must not be left; my place is with him. I suppose Mrs. Clark will be going. Leonard and you can join her party.”

But when this proposition was made to Leonard he refused it without reservation. He was certain that the Clark party was already complete, and he showed a touch of stubbornness in temper that pained and astonished Sappha. If he could not have his pleasure exactly as he wished it, there was no longer any pleasure in it; and he said with an air of intense chagrin:

“I shall be the only young man of my circle who will not be there with the girl he loves and the family into which he hopes to be admitted. I feel it very much.” And with these words he went away.

All morning Sappha sat in a kind of listless grief. She was in a mesh of circumstances against whose evil influence she was powerless. Nothing could avail. The morning was damp and cold and full of melancholy, the house strangely still; she could not sew, she could not read, she could only suffer. And at eighteen years of age suffering is so acute, it seems to youth’s dreams of happiness such a wrong; and the reasonable indifference of age has, to its impatience, the very spirit of cruelty.

About noon Mrs. Bloommaert came into the room. She had a letter in her hand, and there was a singular expression of discomposure both on her countenance and in the fretful way in which she held the missive in her outstretched hand.

“Sappha,” she said, “here comes news indeed! Your grandmother has written to tell us that last night Achille St. Ange asked Annette to marry him. And of course Annette accepted the offer,” commented Annette’s aunt. “Your grandmother seems delighted with the match.”

“They will suit each other very well, mother. I am sure they will be happy. I must go and congratulate Annette.”

“Not to-day. They both went, early this morning, with the news, to grandfather De Vries, and of course that is a day’s visit.”

“As he is the guardian of her estate, Annette would have to ask him for money; for she will now want a great deal of it. I am glad she is going to marry Achille; she has loved him ever since they met.”

“Annette loves Annette first and best of all. But she has plenty of sense, and she knows that a girl of twenty-one has no chances to throw away.”

“Annette looks about seventeen, mother, and she has more lovers than I ever had.”

“That is because you allowed every one to see your preference for Leonard Murray. Besides, what you say is not so. In spite of your partiality, no girl in New York has more admirers than Sapphira Bloommaert.”

“I prefer Leonard to all I ever had, or might have had.”

“Yes. I know. Very foolish, too! Your father does not like him; he will never give a willing consent to your marriage with him—and girls ought to marry before they are Annette’s age. In fact, I have thought her a little old-maidish for a year past.”

“Oh, mother! Now you are joking——”

“Too affected—too full of pouts, and shrugs and pirouettes; things very pretty when a girl is fifteen or sixteen, but quite old-maidish airs at twenty-one.”

“Mother, Annette never looked more than seventeen, and she is not quite twenty-one.”

“I think she looks every day of her age. She is more than two years older than you; and two years, when a girl is in her teens, is a great deal. Well, well, I thought you would have been married first.”

“If father and you were willing, I could be married at once. Leonard would be glad; but——”

“Oh, yes! we all know how soon ‘but’ comes; but, you want your own way; but, father wants his way; but——”

“Mother wants her way also.”

“No, no! Mother is willing for any way that works for others’ happiness—and Leonard is well enough, only things seem always to go contrary for him and you.”

“Dear mother, somebody once said the course of true love never did run smooth. Leonard loves me truly—for myself only. He is rich, and I am not rich. He could marry any girl he desires in New York, but he loves me. Is not that worth counting in his favour?”

“I never said different, Sappha.”

“Annette is very rich; Leonard could have married Annette.”

“I have no doubt of it. I should not wonder if Mr. St. Ange knows the exact amount of her fortune. Frenchmen are not indifferent to a fortune in their brides. I know that. It is a national custom to consider it. St. Ange will have a difficult interview with old De Vries! I would like very much to be present. De Vries will fight every dollar diverted from Annette’s control. Oh, yes! he will fight them, cent by cent.”

“Mother, dear, I do not think Achille has given Annette’s money a moment’s consideration. I do believe he loves her sincerely. He did not wish to love her. He fought the feeling for a long time; both Annette and I knew it, and Annette has often laughed at the way he held out. But she always said, when we spoke of the subject, ‘He is not invincible, some day he will surrender.’ I want to tell her how glad I am.”

“You cannot do so to-day. It is evident they intended a long visit, for your grandmother says in a postscript, ‘Tell Sappha to come very early in the morning. I want particularly to see her.’”

Here the conversation was interrupted by a violent ringing of the judge’s bedroom bell; and the echo of a demanding voice whose tenor could not be mistaken. Mrs. Bloommaert threw her mother-in-law’s letter toward Sappha, and answered the summons at once; and Sappha lifted the letter and carefully re-read it.

All through that dreary day this letter lay in Sappha’s work-basket. It seemed almost to have life, and to talk to her; and when her mother came to drink a cup of tea, she was glad to give her back the intimate, insinuating bit of script. Mrs. Bloommaert held it a moment, and then locked it in the judge’s desk. “I don’t want to see it again,” she said, “but if I burn it, your father will be sure to consider it important enough to keep. Can you imagine what news your grandmother has to tell you?”

“No. There was considerable jesting about a secret yesterday, but it did not strike me as important. It most likely relates in some way to Annette’s marriage.”

“That is hardly possible; Annette did not say a word of her engagement to you yesterday?”

“Oh, but grandmother would not permit her to speak until she herself had announced it. Grandmother is particular about such things. Still, I do not think they were engaged when I left there last night. Achille did not look, or act, like an engaged man; and Annette would have told the secret in twenty ways without uttering a word. I should certainly have seen it. No, the offer was made after I left. Achille was in a very sensitive mood. However, Annette will tell me everything to-morrow.”

In the morning she obeyed her grandmother’s request, and went to Nassau Street very early. She told herself as she walked rapidly through the frosty air that there would likely be some little change in Annette. “There always is,” she mused; “as soon as a girl is engaged something takes place—I wonder what it is.” The first symptom of this change met Sappha at once. Annette did not run to meet her as usual, and though quite as demonstrative, there was a little air of superiority, of settlement, of some subtile accession, that was indefinable, and yet both positive and practical. She was dressed with great care, and in high spirits; and madame shared obviously in all her anticipations.

Sappha was indeed astonished at her grandmother’s appearance and excited mood. Annette answered Sappha’s congratulations with a kiss and a smile only; but madame expressed her pleasure frankly. She was already planning Annette’s wedding and Annette’s home. Suddenly she recollected herself, and said, “Well, then, have you remembered the secret I promised to tell you this morning, Sappha?”

“Is not Annette’s good fortune the secret, grandmother?”

“No. Listen to me. I am going to the theatre to-night! You do not believe me? I assure you it is true. And you, and Annette, and Achille go with me. Achille has been making all preparations for my comfort; and I am sure to have a very happy evening. But it would not be happy, unless you and Annette shared it. Now you must return home, and send here the dress you are going to wear; and then you will spend the day with me. It is to be my gala day. I shall wear my velvet gown, and I am as happy as a little girl. A great evening it will be, and I intend to share all its gladness, and all its enthusiasms. And as Annette has been so kind and clever as to add her happiness to mine, it is a spring-tide of good luck. I consider myself a very fortunate woman.”

“Dear grandmother, my father is suffering very much. Will it be kind and right for me to be at the theatre while he is in such distress?”

“Your father will drink Portugal wine, and then of course he suffers, and makes your mother and every one else miserable. He has the gout; well, you know what that means. I am sorry that he drinks wine, when he ought to drink water; but what he invites he must entertain. I am sorry also, that your mother cannot go with us; she has not drunk Portugal wine, and yet she has the deprivation. Yes, for your mother I am sorry. But as for stopping from the theatre to think about pre-arranged suffering, I shall not do it—and there is no obligation on you to deprive yourself of this night’s pleasure. If I can go with a good conscience, you may safely go with me.”

She had talked herself into a tone of self-defence, and Sappha perceived that it would be unwise to say more. Also, she was very eager for the promised entertainment, and wonderfully delighted at the idea of her grandmother’s pleasant vagary.

“Why, grandmother!” she answered, “it will be part of the performance to see Madame Jonaca Bloommaert present. You will make quite a sensation, and when I am an old woman I shall talk about the night I went with grandmother to the Park Theatre.”

Then she drew the lovely girl to her side and kissed her, and after a little discussion about the dress to be worn, urged her to go home and procure it. Also, she sent by Sappha certain messages to her son Gerardus, which Mrs. Bloommaert, upon consideration, positively refused to deliver.

“Your father is paying dearly for drinking a glass or two of wine,” she answered, “and it is none of God’s way to worry, as well as punish. And I will not tell him over again what he has been told so often; there is nothing so aggravating. What are you going to wear?”

“Mother dear, ought I to go? There is father—and there is Leonard——”

“I forgot! Leonard called here, while you were away.”

“Oh, dear! What did you say to him, mother?”

“I could not see him. I was just giving your father his breakfast. He slept late this morning, and——”

“Then what message did you send?”

“I sent him word you were out, and told him it was impossible to accept his kind offer. Of course I made the refusal in as agreeable words as possible.”

“Did you tell him I had gone to Nassau Street?”

“I forget—I suppose I did. It was Kouba who opened the door. Kouba would be sure to tell him.”

Then Sappha went to her room, packed the clothing she desired, and sent it to Nassau Street by Kouba. On being questioned, he could not remember whether he had told Mr. Murray to go to Nassau Street or not—thought maybe he had. “Master Murray mighty dissatisfied like,” he added, and then he looked curiously in Sappha’s face.

“You are to take this parcel to Nassau Street, Kouba; and when you come back here you will find a letter for Mr. Murray on the piano; you will then go and find Mr. Murray, and give him the letter.”

The writing of this letter was a difficult task to Sappha. She felt the cruelty of Leonard’s position very much—his offer to her family had been early and most generous; yet it was impossible for her father and mother to accept it, and equally impossible for her to accept it alone. The disappointment to his own plans Leonard would doubtless take as cheerfully as possible; but what would he say to her going with Achille? For he might not see Madame Bloommaert’s claim on her granddaughter in the light of an affectionate command and compliance; and then he would be jealous again—and then—and then? Sappha felt bewildered, until she recollected Annette’s engagement. That circumstance would certainly define Achille’s position and prevent any ill-will. “And I told him in my letter about it, so then it is all right.” Thus she reasoned herself into a satisfied mood; and when she returned to her grandmother’s and cousin’s company she could not help catching the joyous expectancy of the situation.

And very soon Achille came in, and it was prettily amusing to watch the behaviour of the newly betrothed. It seemed as if they now found all the world a delightful mystery, a secret between themselves only. Such reliance, such hope, such expectation, had suddenly sprung up between them that there was a constant necessity for little confidences and unshared understandings. However, nothing could be more beautiful than the manner in which Achille treated madame. He consulted her about all the evening’s arrangements, and gave her an affection and respect, which she returned with that charming kindness that is the innocent coquetry of old age.

It was finally agreed that Achille should come for them soon after five o’clock. The usual hour for opening the theatre was six, but Achille said the crowd on the streets was already very embarrassing and difficult to manage.

All afternoon there was a growing sense of something unusual and paramountly exciting—that undistinguishable murmur born of human struggle and exulting gladness. The three women dressed to it, and were all ready for their refreshing cup of tea at half-past four o’clock. Both girls had tacitly agreed that madame was to be the heroine of the occasion. Both assisted in her toilet, and escorted her downstairs like maids of honour. And certainly it would have been hard to find a woman of more distinguished appearance. Her gown of black velvet, though not in the mode, was in her mode, and suited her to perfection. White satin and fine lace made the stomacher, and her white hair was shaded by lace and by a little velvet hood turned back with white satin. Her face had a pretty pink flush, and she was very quiet during the last half hour of waiting.

“There were no theatres when I was a girl,” she said softly. “Would you believe, my dears, that I have never been in a theatre, never seen a play? I wonder me, what your grandfather Bloommaert would say?”

“He would be glad to have you go, of course,” answered Sappha. “Why, grandmother, you ought to go to-night. It is not the play you are going to see, it is something grander.”

She smiled, and Annette said, “I hear a carriage coming. Grandmother, how do I look?”

“You are both pretty enough. It is a great satisfaction to see you dressed alike.”

Then Achille entered, and hurried them a little. He said the immense crowd would render their progress very slow; but no one cared much for the delay. The crowd was orderly and full of enthusiasm. Scudder’s Museum, all public places, and private houses were brilliantly illuminated; there was a sound of music everywhere, and the crowd itself continually burst into irrepressible patriotic song.

It was nearly six when they succeeded in reaching the theatre, and madame’s heart thrilled very much as a child’s would have done when she entered what seemed to her a fairy palace. For the whole front of the theatre was a brilliant transparency representing the engagement of the frigates United States and Macedonian. The Star Spangled Banner met their eyes on all sides, and to its inspiring music they entered the box Achille had provided. Most of the boxes were already filled to their utmost capacity; and in the gallery there was not space enough left for the foot of a little child. But the pit was empty, and to it every eye was turned. Almost immediately the tumultuously joyful cheering outside announced some important arrival. The orchestra struck up, with amazing dash and spirit, Yankee Doodle, and three hearty cheers answered the music as four hundred sailors from the war frigates entered. The crowd inside rose to greet them; cheer followed cheer, until women and men both sobbed with emotion. Then the gunner with his speaking trumpet took his stand in the centre of the pit, in order to command silence if necessary, and the boatswain with his silver call stood next him, to second his commands. And four hundred sailors in their blue jackets, scarlet vests, and glazed hats, all alive with patriotism and excited with victory, made a remarkable audience. They had just come from a dinner given them by the city at the City Hotel, and were exceedingly jovial, and perhaps the big gunner and the boatswain standing up in their midst were not amiss as guides and masters of ceremonies, for when Decatur shortly afterwards entered the box provided for him they rose at the sight of their commodore as one man, and gave twelve such cheers as only four hundred proud and happy sailors could give; every man standing on tiptoe and flourishing his glazed hat in that saucy, dauntless way that is peculiar to sailors. And whoever heard those repeated huzzas, with the silver whistle of the boatswain shrilling through them, heard music of humanity that they never in life forgot. Madame wept silently and unconsciously, Sappha sat with gleaming eyes still and white with emotion, Annette clapped her hands and leaned on Achille for support. The very atmosphere of the house was tremulous and electric, and men and women said and did things of which they were quite unconscious. And wild as the excitement was, it continued during the whole performance; the play, the scenes, the transparencies and dances being chosen and arranged for the purpose of calling out the naval spirit of the audience and of doing homage to the American sailor, who was deservedly at that hour the hope of the country and the idol of the people.

When the wonderful evening was over the sailors left the theatre in perfect order, and preceded by their own band of music marched to their landing at New Slip; and while this exit was transpiring, so many people visited Madame Bloommaert that she may be said to have held a ten minutes’ royal reception in her box. And though the beautiful old woman with her beaming face and rich dark drapery was in herself a picture worth looking at, her charm was greatly increased by the lovely girls who stood on either side of her—both of them dressed alike in pale blue camblet gowns and spencers of the then rare chinchilla fur, so soft, so delicately grey, so inconstestably becoming.

“I have had four hours of perfect happiness,” said madame, as she lay at last among her pillows, with her hands clasped upon her breast, “of perfect happiness! Think of that, children! Four hours of perfect happiness!”

Annette said eagerly, “I too, grandmother, I too have been perfectly happy.” But Sappha did not speak, she bent her head and kissed madame, and fussed a little about her night posset, and her pillows, and the rush light, and so managed to evade any notice of a silence which might have been construed adversely. For indeed Sappha had not been perfectly happy. She had rejoiced with those that rejoiced, but in her heart there was a sense of failure. Leonard had not sought her out, and she had been unable to gain any recognition from him. For a short time he was in the Clarks’ box, and she watched for some sign that he was aware of her presence; but the sign did not come, and long before the entertainment was over he had disappeared.

“He is jealous again,” she thought with a sigh. And really it appeared as if, in this crisis, he had some cause for offence. His offer to accompany Sappha and her family had been refused, and Sappha was with Achille. He had not even been asked to join Achille’s party, and as for the judge’s gout—every one knew he was subject to the complaint. He thought Mrs. Bloommaert might have left him for three or four hours; he told himself that she would have done so if Sappha had asked her with sufficient persuasion. It angered him to see the girl he loved and whose troth he held, in the company of Achille St. Ange. For he was not yet aware of Achille’s engagement to Annette, the letter which Sappha sent by Kouba not having reached him. For Kouba had thought far more of enjoying the excitement of the streets than of finding Mr. Murray, and the only effort he made in that direction was to finally leave the letter at the City Hotel, where he was told Mr. Murray was dining.

So this tremulous fear of having wounded her lover was dropped into Sappha’s cup of pleasure, and clouded and dimmed its perfection. Its very uncertainty was fretsome; there was nothing tangible to put aside; it affected her as a drop of ink infects a glass of pure water—it cannot be definitely pointed out, but it has spoiled the water. The only certain feeling was a regret, which lay like a slant shadow over her heart and life. She was glad when the morning came. She wished to go home, and be alone a little. Annette’s selfish joy, though effusively good-tempered, was not pleasant, and it struck Sappha in that hour that there are times when good breeding is better than good temper.

On arriving at the Bowling Green she interviewed Kouba at once. But Kouba had his tale ready. He assured Sappha that he had found Mr. Murray eating his dinner at the City Hotel, and that a white man had promised to send the letter right away to him, “And I saw him do it,” he added, with a reckless disregard for facts. If this was the case, then Leonard knew of the engagement between Annette and Achille, and she could not imagine why her lover had so obviously ignored her.

But for a time it was necessary to put this question out of her mind. She had to describe the previous evening’s proceedings to her father and mother, and then it was dinner time—and Leonard had not come. She was utterly miserable, and under the plea of a headache went to her room. It was impossible for her to talk any longer of those things that did not concern her. She wanted to think of her lover, and if possible discover what course was the best to take.

“Oh, if father had not been ill just at this time!” she sighed, “we might have been all so happy together last night! Why did father’s attack come on the very day both mother and I wanted him to be well? Oh, how unfortunate!” And Sappha’s lament was quite true—the unfortunate thing usually happens at the unfortunate time, for a malign fate never does things by half. So the girl wept, and told herself that she was sorry she had gone to the theatre at all, and that whenever she tried to be kind to others and to forget herself she was always sorry. She declared Leonard had a right to be offended. He had been badly treated, and his desire to have their engagement made public was a wise and honourable one for both of them. Perhaps her arguments were all wrong, but then the human relations are built on feeling, not on reason or knowledge. And feeling is not an exact science; like all spiritual qualities, it has the vagueness of greatness about it.

However, youth is happy in this respect—it can weep. Sorrow finds an outlet by the eyes; when we grow older it sinks inward and drowns the heart. So Sappha wept her grief away, and was sitting in a kind of dismal, hopeless stillness when Leonard came.

They met and embraced speechlessly, and it was evident that Leonard also had been suffering. But in little confidences and mutual explanations all suspicions and fears passed away, and their love was nourished and cherished by the tears with which they watered it. And in this interview they came to the conclusion that their engagement must be publicly ratified, and Leonard promised to see Judge Bloommaert as soon as the latter was able to discuss the subject.

“And you will not vex my father about Mr. Burr? Dear Leonard, you will not put Mr. Burr before me?”

“I will put no one on earth before you, my darling! No one!”

“Remember, Leonard, that you have had nothing but worries since you visited the man. But wherever or whenever you meet Aaron Burr, I would count it an unlucky day.”

And the questionable words sunk deeper into Leonard’s consciousness than far more reasonable arguments would have done. He answered them with kisses only, but as he walked up the Bowling Green he said at intervals, as if answering his thoughts: “Perhaps—maybe—who can tell? She is best of all, God forever bless her!”

As for Sappha, she went swiftly upstairs to her room. Her heart was as light as it had been heavy. She sat down, she arose, she rubbed her palms with pleasure, she sighed, she smiled, and her eyes were full of love’s own light as she whispered softly, “Leonard! Leonard! Leonard! Oh, my dear one!”

Thus does grief favour all who bear the gift of tears.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Incident of Marriage

“There is a report that the Constitution captured the British war frigate Java about last Christmas Day. I believe the report, for it came by the privateer Tartar, Captain King.”

“I wish we could have any such news from the Niagara frontier. Nothing but disaster comes that way. The government has requested my son Peter to go there and assist Brown with the building of the lake fleet. I wonder if it will accomplish anything.”

“All it is intended to accomplish, judge. We must give the men up there time and opportunity. Before summer is over we shall hear from them.”

They then began a conversation upon the defences of New York, and Leonard described the work going forward on Hendrick’s reef, and at Navesink. “There are more than eight hundred Jersey Blues on the heights,” he said, “and the telegraph on the Highlands is ready to work. General Izard is an active and zealous officer.”

Having exhausted this subject, the judge suddenly became personal, and with an abruptness that startled Leonard, asked:

“How are you spending these fine winter days, Mr. Murray? Tell me, if my question is not an intrusive one.”

“Indeed, sir, I consider it a great honour. And advice from you, at this time, would be of more service than you can imagine.”

“If you will take it; but most people ask advice only that it may confirm them in the thing they have already resolved to do.”

“I will ask your advice, sir. It cannot but be better than my own opinion.” Then Leonard explained his intention with regard to the study of the law regulating real estate, and Judge Bloommaert listened with attention and evident satisfaction.

“It will be a good thing for you to do, Mr. Murray,” he answered, when Leonard ceased speaking. “You ought not to be idle, even if you can afford it; and this study will not only employ your time, it will eventually save you much money. Go and see Mr. Vanderlyn. Perhaps he may let you read with him. No one knows more about real estate.”

“I have been told, sir, that Mr. Burr is the greatest authority on that subject.”

“Mr. Burr is out of consideration.”

“I confess, sir, that I have already considered him.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Not definitely.”

“Mr. Murray, if you sit in Mr. Burr’s office, you will soon share his opinions. And in such case, I should be compelled to forbid you the society of myself and family. You cannot touch pitch and not be defiled.”

He spoke with rising anger, and Leonard answered as softly as possible:

“Judge, I ask your advice in this matter. I have already told you I would take it. Can we not talk of Mr. Burr as reasonably as of the war and our defences? I am open to conviction, and free to confess that I do not see what Mr. Burr has done to merit the ostracism he is receiving from certain parties. I suppose it is one of the accidents of his fate, a paradox—and life is full of paradoxes.”

“Mr. Burr’s ostracism is no accident, it is his own act. The man has committed a crime, and the interpretation thereof is written on everything he does.”

“You mean his duel with Mr. Hamilton? Sir, if Mr. Hamilton had killed Mr. Burr, would the Federalists have considered it a crime?”

“Mr. Hamilton’s case is out of our jurisdiction. It is gone to a higher court.”

“Is not that special pleading, judge?”

“It will do for the case.”

“Hamilton had publicly called Burr unprincipled, dangerous, despicable, an American Cataline—oh, many other derogatory epithets! Would not Mr. Burr have been generally held as despicable if he had not defended his good name?”

“By killing his defamer?”

“Well, sir, how else could he have done it?”

“In politics men call each other all sorts of ill names. They even invent new ones for their opponent. And though in Paradise the lion will lie down with the lamb, in Paradise they will not have to submit their rival political views to general elections. Say that Mr. Hamilton was vituperative—it was a war of words. Mr. Burr Had a tongue and a pen, as well as Mr. Hamilton. If Mr. Hamilton had insulted Mr. Burr’s wife, or run off with his daughter, there might have been some excuse for a bloody settlement, but words, words, words, the tongue or the pen would have answered them.”

“Then, judge, you do not approve of the duel?”

“I do not. But I think that Mr. Burr’s fatal mistake will eventually put duelling as much out as witchcraft. We shall probably also have strong repressive laws against it.”

“Yet as long as public opinion respects duelling, no repressive law will be as strong as public opinion. We are as moral and intelligent now as any people can be, yet the duel is not obsolete, nor has Mr. Burr’s ostracism been a deterrent.”

“I know that. Last year two men quarrelled about an umbrella in the hall of Scudder’s Museum, and the next day one of them shot the other dead. Nine out of ten people called the dead man a fool for his pains. Mr. Murray, the duel has become perilously close to the ridiculous. Men may talk about blowing out brains for an angry word, but the majority quietly laugh at the absurdity. Such conduct is totally unworthy of American common sense. For no man of intelligence would fight a duel if he remembered that he would render himself liable to form the text for an article in The Morning Chronicle. To be treated either with its satire or its morality would be equally depressing—it would make him intensely ridiculous in any case. But we shall never give up duelling on moral and intelligent grounds.”

“Then on what other grounds?”

“The class duellists come from are the brainless class; and if the custom was strictly confined by this class to their fellows, it would be one of the most innocent of their amusements. We must make duelling ridiculous, for when mockery and satire are constant about any subject, you may know that thing is dead, and its shell only remains.”

“But, judge, if a man’s honour is assailed——”

“If we were all Hotspurs, Mr. Murray, and ready to plunge into the deep and pluck honour by the locks, we might count on sympathy; but when the majority think with Falstaff, that ‘honour is a mere scutcheon’ we get a chill, until we remember the divine law. For after all, sir, the Decalogue remains as a finality. Look up the sixth clause of that code.”

“There is nothing to add to it, sir.”

“Not on moral and intellectual grounds. Socially, you may remember the homely proverb which advises ‘Go with good men, and you will be counted one of them.’ Go with Mr. Burr, and you will be counted with him; held at the same price—nay, you will be only one of Mr. Burr’s satellites. If you want really to study law——”

“No, sir. I give up the idea. I have said sufficient to Mr. Burr to wound him if I go elsewhere. And just because he is down at present, I will not give him a coward’s kick.”

“There is no occasion to do so. It is not a chargeable thing to salute civilly. But Mr. Burr’s affairs are none of your profit, therefore why make them your peril?”

“I thank you for your good advice, judge.”

“Then take it.”

“I will, sir.”

“Now having interfered with your intention, I am bound to offer you something in its place. It is this: I can get you active employment with Gouverneur Morris, Simeon De Witt, and John Rutherford, who are busy yet in perfecting their plans for the streets of the future New York. I should not wonder if they map out the whole island. In fact, they have already provided space for a greater population than is collected on any spot this side of China. I cannot say I like their mathematical arrangement; they are making a city idealised after Euclid—straight, stiff, wearisome, without character or expression.”

“But it will be a most convenient arrangement. I would carry the plan out, even north of Harlem Flat.”

“There will be no houses there for centuries to come.”

“Oh, yes, sir, before this century goes out.”

The judge smiled. He liked the young man’s enthusiasm, and he answered: “So be it. You shall help to survey the ground. I will speak to De Witt to-morrow.”

At this point of the discussion there was a knock at the front door, followed by a little stir of entrance, and the sound of speech and light laughter. Both men were suddenly all ear. There was no more conversation, and after a few moments of silent expectation Mrs. Bloommaert and Sappha entered the room together. They were in happy mood, and Sappha was so lovely with the bloom of the frosty air on her smiling face that Leonard forgot everything and every one but her, and before either were aware he had taken her hands and kissed her.

The next moment they both realised their position, and Leonard, still holding Sappha’s hand, led her to the astonished father. “Sir,” he said, “we have loved each other since we were children. Will you now sanction our love, and permit our betrothal?”

The judge looked helplessly at his wife. She was watching the young couple with smiles on her face, and evident sympathy in her heart for their cause. If he wished to be adverse and disagreeable, he foresaw he would have no help from Mrs. Bloommaert. Yet to give up in a moment all the wavering feelings of dislike he had entertained for Leonard, and all his own settled purpose of no recognised engagement for his daughter until peace was accomplished, was a hard struggle. Perhaps it was well he had to decide in a moment. At that precise hour he was in a mood of liking Leonard, and he had no time to reason himself into another mood. Slowly, and with a little asperity, he answered:

“Mr. Murray, it seems to me you have not waited either for my sanction or my permission.”

“Ah, sir, consider the temptation.”

Involuntarily he looked into the face of “the temptation.” With clear, shining eyes she held his eyes a moment, and then her voice uttered the undeniable entreaty: “I love Leonard so dearly, father. And he loves me.”

“I see! I see!”

“We only wish to please you, father; that is best of all.”

“Indeed, sir, that is best of all!” said Leonard eagerly.

“Well, well! In this country the majority rules. What can a man do if there are three against him, especially when one of the three is his wife?” and he shook his head, and looked somewhat reproachfully at his wife.

Then Sappha slipped her arms around his neck, and laid her cheek against his, and he embraced his daughter and stretched out his hand to Leonard.

Thus Fortune often brings in the boats we do not steer, and by what we call a happy accident guides our dearest and most difficult hopes to a sudden fruition. It is then a good thing to leave the door wide open for our unknown angels. They often accomplish for us what we hardly dare to attempt.

After this settlement Sappha and Leonard felt that they might revel in the joy of life and take their pleasure where-ever they found it. And they found it both in public and private affairs. Annette’s marriage was to take place in June, and there were preparations without end going on for that event. Her grandfather De Vries had given her, as a wedding gift, the Semple place, a beautiful old home set in a fine garden which had once sloped down to the river bank.

“It is not exactly what I should have chosen,” said the bride-elect; “but it is valuable property, and grandfather would not have given it to me if I had not promised to live there.”

“It is no hardship to live in the Semple house,” said Sappha. “The rooms are so large, the woodwork so richly carved, and the garden is the sweetest, shadiest place in New York, I think.”

“Grandmother is going to furnish it, and she lets me choose exactly what I want. I declare, dear Achille and I have no time for love-making, we are so worried about chairs and tables and wedding garments.”

“I never should have thought Achille would worry about anything. He is always so deliberate, and so calm.”

“Oh, but a man in love is a different creature, and I can tell you that Achille is distractingly in love. I am not quite ignorant about the queer ways of men in a fever of infatuation. Why, he scarcely ever goes to see the pastry cook now.”

“Oh, but De Singeron was a gallant officer of King Louis! He is in exile and misfortune, that is all. The pastry business is but an emergency—and he manages it splendidly——”

“Certainly. I have always liked his good things. And he is going to make us the most wonderful wedding cake. However, when Achille and I are married Achille will have to give up many things, and Monsieur Auguste Louis de Singeron will be one of them. At present I have too many things to worry about to interfere.”

“You have nearly half a year in which to do your worrying. Why not take things more easily?”

“Oh, the fun is in the fuss! Did you hear that General Moreau is going back to Europe to join the allies? The emperor of Russia has sent for him, and now he will have the chance to pay Napoleon back for his nine years’ exile. But I shall never pass 119 Pearl Street without a sigh. No one ever gave such princely entertainments as the Moreaus. The general is to have a great appointment, but what he likes best is the chance of fighting the world’s big tyrant. Achille is going to see him embark—and many others. But this is not my affair. There is my wedding gown, for instance.”

“Have you decided on it?”

“It must be white—everything about me must be white. Achille says so. I think grandmother will send to Boston for the silk or satin; there is none here of a quality fit for the most important gown a woman can ever wear. You would think it was grandmother’s wedding, she is so interested in every little thing about it.”

Indeed, Annette did not much overstate madame’s interest in her granddaughter’s marriage preparations. She lifted the additional work, and even the additional expense, with a light-hearted alacrity that was wonderful. And in many ways her cheerfulness brought her a rich and ready reward. She had been almost a recluse for some years, she was now seen constantly on the streets and in the stores, and not infrequently in this way she became a delighted spectator of public parades and military drills and movements. Achille usually accompanied her, and his respectful attentions were a source of wonder and speculation to those who forgot to consider that Frenchmen are specially trained to give honour, and even reverence, to old age. So it was not remarkable that madame put on a kind of second youth; how could she be in constant, affectionate accord with four loving young hearts and not do so?

For the next half-year, then, Annette was the centre of interest in her own little world. The judge and Mrs. Bloommaert, Sappha, and Leonard gladly entered into the spirit of this generous service for, and sympathy with, the exultant little bride. And at this period of her life, even her foibles and selfishness were pleasantly excused. It was her last draught of the careless joy of girlhood; no one wished to spill, or spoil, one drop of it.

Leonard and Sappha were much of their time at the Bloommaert House in Nassau Street; although Leonard, in the City Commissioner’s office, was making some pretence of mapping out streets and lots of ground in the wilderness round Harlem Flat. But this business hardly interfered with his attentions to Sappha and Annette; nor yet with the military spirit which took him very regularly to the guard-room of some of the volunteer companies. He was also a recognised dependence when the city wished to entertain some hero whom it delighted to honour; for then both his purse and his natural genius for method and arrangement made him an invaluable surety for success.

During this half-year there were not many warlike events to influence New York, and her citizens had become quite used to the guns at the different forts signalling “the British fleet off Sandy Hook.” Many false alarms also contributed to this sense of security. They were well aware, too, that the already numerous forts were being steadily increased and strengthened, and in April the Battery parade was fortified. This park was then a strip of greensward about three hundred feet wide, between State Street and the water’s edge. It had no sea wall, only a low wooden fence on the edge of a bluff two or three feet high; then loose sand and pebbles to the water’s edge. There was a dock at the foot of Whitehall Street, and at Marketfield Street the water came nearly to the middle of the block between Washington and Greenwich streets. About the centre of the southeastern part of this park there was a public garden and a charming little hall, where coffee, cakes, ice cream, and other delicacies were served; and on summer evenings some of the military bands made excellent music there for the visitors.

Of course, the erection of a breastwork around this water line of the park was an interesting event to all the dwellers on the Bowling Green, and Sappha and Leonard, during the lovely days of April and May, took their walks about the Battery fortifications, and thus thrilled their love through and through with the passion of patriotism and the glow and excitement of its warlike preparations.

It was while these Battery defences were being constructed that the city gave one of its usual great entertainments to Captain Lawrence, who in the Hornet had captured the British brig-of-war Peacock. Two circumstances made this dinner one that brought the war very close to the people of New York—the first was the fact that Lawrence was a citizen of New York; the second was the marching of the one hundred and six survivors of the sunk ship Peacock through all the principal streets of the city to their prison in Fort Gansevoort, thus affording the populace a very visible proof of victory. It was, however, noticeable that few of American parentage offered any insult to the depressed-looking sailors, while many men of the first consideration raised their hats as the unhappy line passed. Leonard and Achille were among this number. “Honour to the vanquished!” said Achille with emotion; and Leonard, remembering who had taught them that sentiment, repeated it. And this courtesy was the more emphatic, because at that very time a large number of British war vessels had entered the Chesapeake and Delaware bays.

But did war ever stop marriage? On the contrary, it seems to give a strange vitality and hurry to love-making; and in the midst of all its alarms Annette’s wedding preparations went blithely on to their determined crisis. On the seventh of June Annette, being of age, became mistress of her estate, and on the seventeenth of the same month she married Achille St. Ange.

It was an exquisite summer day, and the old house in Nassau Street had never looked more picturesquely homelike. Every rose tree was in bloom, and doors and windows were all open to admit the scented air. For the company far exceeded the capacity of the parlours; it filled the hall, the stairway, and the piazzas, and even in the garden happy young people were wandering among the syringa bushes and the red and white roses. And presently there was a little wistful, eager stir, and Annette, followed by her grandmother and Sappha, came softly down the stairway. Then the girls sitting there rose and stood on each side of the descent, and Achille hastened to meet the snow-white figure, and ere she touched the floor took her hands in his own. And never had Annette looked so fair and so lovely; from the rose in her hair to the satin sandals on her feet she was in lustrous white. The faint colour of her cheeks, the deeper red of her mouth, and the heavenly blue of her eyes were but the tender tints that gave life to the bright, slow-moving, bride-like beauty.

Many a time Annette had consciously assumed a pensive, thoughtful expression, for Achille admired her most in such moods; but there was no necessity for the pretence this day. Those who had any penetrative observation might see beyond the light of her sweet smiles and glances the shadowed eyes that both remember and foresee. She was not a girl at all inclined to reflection, but feeling and intuition go where reason cannot enter, and Annette felt that this very day was the meridian day of her life. Having gained this, the height of her hope and desire, she wondered—even against her will—“if she must henceforward tread the downward slope until the evening shades of life found her?” Was this day to give a future to her past and change girlhood’s simple hopes into the richer joys of wifehood? Or would this new self that had just taken possession of her bring kisses wet with tears, waste remembrance of vanished hours, and forlorn sighs for the days eventual? Not these words, but the sentiment of them, insinuated itself into the bride’s consciousness. It was uncalled, and unwelcome; and Annette, frowning at the intrusion, dismissed it. She had always found “change” meant something better, and that there was ever a living joy, ready to take the place of a dead one, even as—