CHAPTER SIX

_The Miracle of Love_

There had been something more than courtesy in Judge Bloommaert’s attitude to Leonard that New Year’s night, and Sappha was exceedingly happy to notice it. If Leonard would only be careful and conciliating, such favour might be won as would make an acknowledgment of their engagement pleasantly possible. As it was, Sappha was light-hearted and hopeful, for surely now Leonard would wait the natural development of events.

And for a few days the subject was not named; Sappha was busy helping her mother to put in order the numerous household goods and affairs that had been disarranged by the licence of the holidays, and Leonard also had some unusual business, the nature of which he promised to reveal before the week was over. New Year’s Day fell that year on a Friday, and on the Tuesday following it Sappha went to visit her grandmother and cousin. It was a sunshiny, winter day, and the old house on Nassau Street had such an antique, handsome homelikeness, as made far finer dwellings look common and vulgar in comparison with it. Madame sat by the blazing fire writing letters; Annette was marking new towels with the Bloommaert initials; but when she saw Sappha at the gate she put away her work and ran to meet her.

Then there was no more writing, and no more sampler letters; the three women sat down to “talk things over.” And when the _Yule Klap_ presents and the New Year’s feasts had been discussed, they drifted very naturally to the guests and to their dressing and conversation. Madame enjoyed it all, and the morning passed quickly and pleasantly away.

“Grandmother has a secret, Sappha, and I cannot coax it from her,” said Annette. Then she laid her hand upon madame’s, and added: “Now that Sappha is here, do tell us both, grandmother.”

“Until Thursday morning I will not tell you,” she answered. “Do you wish me to break my promise? That is not my way.”

“You promised Achille, eh, grandmother? Oh, I see that I have guessed correctly--you are smiling, grandmother, and you cannot help it--so then, it is something Achille is going to do! Very well, Achille shall tell me. I shall insist upon it.”

They joked, and wondered about “grandmother’s secret,” and ineffectually begged to share it, until dinner was over; then madame went to her room, and the girls dropped the subject at once--they had more interesting matter to discuss.

“Have you seen Leonard since the New Year?” asked Annette. “How delightfully he conducted himself! How charmingly he sang and talked! I do believe that uncle Gerardus was quite impressed by his intelligence. He is very handsome also--does he still make love to you, Sappha?”

“He would not be in the fashion if he omitted the fine words all the young men say nowadays. I might as well ask you if Achille flatters the fair Annette in the same silly way?”

“Do you think it silly? I think it is heavenly sweet, and quite proper. Yes, the dear Achille continually invents new names for me. The ‘fair Annette’ is out of date. I am now his ‘Heart’s Desire!’ I am afraid he is distractingly in love with me.”

“But why do you fear it? Are you not in love with the dear Achille?”

“I fear it, because I am sure that I am life or death to him; and I am not quite sure that I am in love with any one--it is such a responsibility. Are you in love with Leonard?”

“What is the use of being in love, when you cannot marry for nearly three years. I have promised father and mother not to engage myself to any one until after the war.”

“How foolish! Such silly promises ought to be broken--are made to be broken. Does Leonard want to marry you?”

“I wish you would ask him. In so many ways Leonard is inscrutable. He has some business on hand now that he is keeping a secret. I think secrets are in the air. Pray, when will you marry Achille? Or has he not asked you yet?”

“My dear Sappha, he is the most sensitive of mortals. He says love should not be talked about--it makes it common; takes off all the bloom and glory from Cupid’s wings; just as handling the butterfly makes it crushed and shabby. I think he is right. Achille does not need to talk, he says such things with his soft black eyes that perhaps he had better not say with his beautiful red lips. However, his lips are not as prudent as they might be.”

“Oh, Annette! Do you really mean that he has kissed you?--and yet you are not engaged.”

“Suppose it is so! I do not feel a whit the worse for it. I am going to be Mrs. St. Ange. I have made up my mind on that subject.”

“But Achille?”

“That is settled. I intend to marry him. Some people will say I am making a poor match--because, you know, I shall have a great deal of property and money; but I do not intend to listen to any one’s opinion.”

“But Achille has not really asked you to be his wife?”

“That is nothing. He will do so the very hour I am ready to accept him. I put the question off until after the holidays, because one can never tell what might happen at New Year’s.”

“Were you expecting anything to happen?--anything unforeseen, Annette?”

“Well, I thought young Washington Irving might come home at Christmas, and I wanted to see him again. I felt sure you knew that I have been considering him.”

“He loved Matilda Hoffman.”

“I know that, of course. But after she--withdrew, I felt that it might be my office to comfort him. He looked so charming, and so sorrowful.”

“I have not seen him lately,” said Sappha.

“He went to Philadelphia about some magazine he is editing; but I heard that he is coming back to board with Mrs. Ryckman. His great friend, Harry Brevoort, told Achille so. However, I have given Mr. Irving quite up. I don’t think I could take any interest in the Analectic Magazine; though I am sure I cannot imagine what an Analectic Magazine is like. But then, as Achille says, I have no occasion to know such things. I rather think it is something dreadful--it might be a doctor’s magazine. I believe Mr. Irving thought of being a doctor.”

“I certainly believe you would find Achille more agreeable to you than Mr. Irving.”

“Achille is so wonderfully polite. You cannot make him forget his fine manners--and grandmother is very fond of him. She does not like Mr. Irving. She thinks his ‘History of New York,’ a piece of great impertinence--and I wish to please grandmother, for several reasons.”

In such conversation they passed the afternoon, until madame came back to them, Sappha always skilfully parrying Annette’s point blank questions, by others just as direct; and in this way easily leading her cousin to personal subjects of far superior interest to her--that is, her own lovers and love affairs. Just before madame’s tea hour Leonard came. He was in the highest possible spirits, and carried himself as if something very important had happened to him; as, indeed, it had.

He said he had been at the Bowling Green, and found no one at home. Mrs. Bloommaert had gone to drink a cup of tea with Mrs. Jane Renwick, and hear her talk of “poor Robert Burns,” who had sung of her as _The Blue-Eyed Lassie_.

“Well, then, now we shall find out if Mr. Washington Irving is in New York, or is likely to be here; for he certainly could not be in the city a day without going to see Jane Renwick,” said Annette.

“What does Sapphira Bloommaert or Annette de Vries want with Mr. Washington Irving?” asked madame. “Has he not turned the respectable Dutch of New York into ridicule--made people to laugh at their homely ways. Such laughter is not good for them, nor yet for us.”

“We were just wondering about him, grandmother--you know he is a possibility now.”

“Annette De Vries!”

“For American girls, I mean. I was telling Sappha that little Mary Sanford is quite willing to comfort the widowed lover.”

“Such silly chatter is this! Leonard, have you news more sensible?”

“I think I have, madame. In the first place, there is to be such a play at the Park Theatre on Thursday night as never has been seen, nor is ever likely to be seen again. I went to the Bowling Green to ask Mrs. Bloommaert and Sappha to come to my box, and now I come here to tell you. There is room there also for you madame, and for Annette. I hope you will do me the great honour to accept my invitation;” and he rose and bowed to madame first, and then with a charming exaggeration to Sappha and Annette.

Madame put off answering for herself and Annette, but Sappha accepted the invitation with delight; and in the conversation incident to this proposal, and the asides springing readily from it, the daylight faded and the good supper was brought in and thoroughly enjoyed. Then the table was cleared, and the hearth swept, and the candles placed on the high chimney piece, where their light did not weary madame’s eyes; and the little company drew their chairs within the comfort line of the blazing fire.

Annette was a little quieter than seemed natural, but then Achille had not called. The day was slipping away without his customary devotion, and Sappha was present to notice this remissness; it was, therefore, very annoying, for Annette felt its contradiction after her little fanfaronade about her power over the impassioned, sensitive Achille St. Ange.

Suddenly Leonard seemed to take a resolve, or else the news he had to tell urged him beyond restraint. He looked at Sappha with a demanding interest, and then said: “Madame, I remember that you once asserted all young men ought to have either a business or a profession, if only to keep them out of mischief. I have this day concluded to begin the study of the law. I hope I may thus be kept out of mischief.”

“Come, now, you have done a wise thing, Leonard; I am glad of what you say.”

“I feel quite satisfied, madame, that I have done right--done what my dear father would approve, if he were alive to direct me. And yet, at last, I acted without taking much thought or advice on the subject.”

“That also may be a wise thing, Leonard. Young men sometimes take more thought than is good for purpose--they think and think till they cannot act.”

“As I say, the resolve came suddenly. I had a large bill to pay two days ago for business connected with my real estate; and as I looked at it I thought, Why not do this business myself? Half an hour afterwards Mr. King said this same thing to me; and I went home and considered the subject. Then I called on several good business men and asked them who was the best real estate lawyer in the city.”

“Real estate!” cried madame, “then you are not going to study criminal law?”

“No, no! I want to know all about the laws regulating the buying and selling of property, leasing, mortgaging, renting, and so on--what tenants ought to do, and what landlords ought to do--don’t you see, madame?” He said “madame,” but he looked at Sappha, who was watching him with an expression more speculative than approving.

“Yes,” answered madame, “I see. And your idea is a very prudent one. Listen, if a good teacher on this subject you want, go and article yourself to Seth Vanderlyn. What he does not know about real estate is not worth knowing.”

“Oh, I have done better than Seth Vanderlyn! I am going to read with Aaron Burr! What do you think of that? The most learned, the most delightful, the most eminent of all living lawyers. I am really so excited at my good fortune I know not what to say. Mr. King and Mr. Read and several other men of affairs and experience told me I had selected a lawyer who had no compeer in land and property business. In such respect they all said I had done well, and for other matters, I was the best judge. I suppose they referred to Mr. Burr’s duelling episode.”

Sappha’s face expressed only dismay and distress. She had neither a word nor a smile for Leonard’s great news. He turned to Annette. She was lost in the contemplation of her feet--which were small and beautifully shod, and she silently turned them in and out, as if their perfect fit was the present question of importance. Madame’s brows were drawn together, and there was a look of uncertainty on her face. In a moment of time Leonard saw all these different signs of disapproval and dislike. His face flushed with anger, and he continued in a tone of offence:

“I thought you would all rejoice with me. I thought you would at least commend the step I had taken--I----”

“It is no good step for you,” answered madame in a voice of regret. “If with bad men you go you are counted one with them; if with doomed men you go, you catch misfortune from them.”

“I do not understand what you mean, madame.”

“Leonard,” interrupted Sappha, “you have not asked my father’s opinion? If you had, you would never have taken this foolish step.”

“‘Foolish step?’ Why, Sappha, every one to whom I have named my purpose thinks me fortunate. And if you only knew Mr. Burr you would confess it an enormous privilege to be under his advice and tuition. He is the most fascinating of men.”

“Fascinating! Yes, that is right,” said madame. “His charm I know well. But listen to me, Leonard Murray, this is a fascination to be thrown off--it is no good for you. All of your friends, do you wish to lose?”

“Yes, if they are so foolish as to leave me because, wanting instruction, I have chosen the best of masters.”

“Well, then, say also, the most unpopular man in New York.”

“Indeed, madame, you are mistaken,” answered Leonard warmly. “I do not know a more popular man than Mr. Burr in New York to-day. No lawyer has a larger practice, and during the few hours I passed in his office the last two days I saw there the most honourable and influential of our citizens. Every one treated him with respect, and it is a fact that the first day his return to New York was known five hundred gentlemen called on him before he slept that night. It is also a fact that within twelve days after he nailed up his sign in Nassau Street he received two thousand dollars in cash fees. His business is now large and lucrative, and no one but those stupid Tory Federalists are against him.”

“My father is a stupid Tory Federalist, Leonard,” said Sappha coldly.

“Oh, how unfortunate I am! I do nothing but make mistakes to-night. Poor Mr. Burr! A majority of our great men have fought duels; is Mr. Burr to be the scapegoat of all American duellists? De Witt Clinton, though his enemy, admits that no man ever received provocation so frequent, so irritating, so injurious, and so untruthful, as Burr received from Alexander Hamilton. My dear friends, I assure you that Burr has more defenders than his victim.”

“Very likely,” replied Sappha with a remarkable show of temper, “a great many people prefer a living dog to a dead lion.”

“I thought I was sure of your sympathy, Sappha,” answered Leonard, and as he uttered these words Annette rose up hastily, clapped her hands together, and said: “Thank goodness, I hear Achille St. Ange’s footsteps! Now we shall have some sensible conversation.” She ran to the door and set it wide open, and Achille saw the comforting firelight, and the beautiful girl standing in its glow, waiting to welcome him. It gave him a sense of content, almost of home and love. He came in holding her hand; his black fur cloak throwing into remarkable significance the pallor of his haughty, handsome face, lighted by eyes of intense blackness and brilliancy.

Leonard was not pleased at what he considered the intrusion, but Achille’s fine manners and the easy tone of his conversation were really a welcome relief to the uncomfortable strain introduced by the Burr topic. Achille was cheery and agreeable, and had plenty of those little critical things to say of acquaintances every one likes to hear--critical, but not unkindly so. This night, also, he was even unusually handsome, and his sumptuous dress only in the diapason of the general air of luxury which was the distinguishing quality of his life.

To the gay persiflage of his conversation madame paid little attention. She was lost in thoughtful reminiscence, and when she re-entered the society of those around her she returned to the conversation which the entrance of Achille had interrupted.

“I have been taking thought, Leonard,” she said, “and I wonder me at you! Of good days are you tired? If so, then join yourself to Aaron Burr. I am not pleased that you should do this, but so, nothing will help, I fear--at least no ordinary advice.”

“Is not that a hard thing to say, madame?”

“Very well, but it is the truth. So then, to make short work of it, no ordinary advice will I give you; but an extraordinary reason, that may perhaps turn your mind another way. I know not--there are none so blind as those who will not see.”

“First, madame, permit me to ask Mr. St. Ange, in your presence, if he thinks I require either ordinary or extraordinary arguments against the course I have marked out for myself.”

Madame moved her head in assent, and then Leonard, in a few sentences, told Achille of his proposed study with Mr. Burr, and asked him frankly “if he considered Mr. Burr’s duelling experience inimical to business relations with him?”

And Achille answered promptly: “If Mr. Burr had not fought Mr. Hamilton I should consider your engagement with him disastrous, both to your social and business reputation. Mr. Hamilton had slandered Mr. Burr in public and in private, and even while Mr. Burr supposed him to be his friend he had disseminated the unguarded sallies of his host while a guest at his dinner table. As I understand the subject, Mr. Burr had no alternative between two inexorable facts--to fight, which might mean physical death; not to fight, which would certainly mean social and political death. Mr. Burr had, I think, a too great patience. I would have appealed to the sword to stop the tongue long before Mr. Burr did.”

Leonard was delighted and grateful, and said so, and Achille added: “We must remember that Cheetham, who edited Hamilton’s newspaper, asked the public through that organ: ‘Is the Vice-President sunk so low as to submit to be insulted by General Hamilton?’ It seems to me then that Cheetham really sent the challenge to Mr. Burr, and that the Vice-President had no honourable alternative. He had to fight or be eternally branded a poltroon, a dastardly coward!” And he uttered these shameful words with such passionate scorn that they seemed to disturb the air like wildfire.

“About duelling there may be two opinions,” said Madame, “but when treason is the question, what then?”

“But that question was settled by Mr. Burr’s trial, madame,” answered Leonard. “The law and the testimony, the judge, and the jury decided that Mr. Burr was not guilty of treason. Should we go behind that settlement?”

“The people have gone behind it, and will do so.”

“I doubt that as a final result,” said Leonard. “Many are of Mr. Vanderlyn’s opinion, that the natural boundaries of the United States are the Atlantic and Pacific, and that all foreign authority must be got rid of within that territory. If Aaron Burr did not succeed, he thought others would.”

“But Aaron Burr would have set up a monarchy for himself.”

“That is not conceivable, madame. I said so to Mr. Vanderlyn, and he laughed at the idea. He said, ‘Burr had remarkable military genius, and that his object was to atone for his political failure by some great military feat, but whatever the feat he contemplated, it would have been in the end for his country.’ Vanderlyn put aside all evidence to the contrary, because given by men who had been at first confederate with Burr, and then betrayed him. What reliance could be placed on anything such men said? I believe,” said Leonard, with confident fervour, “that Mr. Burr will outlive the memory of his faults and attain yet the success his great abilities deserve.”

“_He will not!_” said madame. “The hatred of the living a man may fight, and hope to conquer, but the vengeance of the dead, who then can escape that? Sooner or later it drives ‘the one followed’ to destroy himself. This trouble began twelve years gone by. Hamilton and Burr called it to themselves, that night they tricked justice, slandered the innocent, and let the guilty go free. Snuff the candles, Achille, the room is full of shadows; more light give us, and I will tell you when, and how, the doom of both men was called to them.”

There was a few minutes’ delay, during which the silence was unbroken, and then madame continued:

“It was in the year of God eighteen hundred, in the month of March, and we had come near to the spring. Mr. Hamilton was then of all the lawyers in New York the most famous, and it was one of the sights of the city to see him going to court with his papers and books. In that month came the trial of Levi Weekes for the murder of the beautiful Gulielma Sands, and Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Burr were united in the defence of Weekes. Very well indeed I knew Elma Sands, for she lived with her uncle and aunt Ring, who were tenants of mine for many years. At the time of her murder they lived in Greenwich Street, near Franklin; and Weekes boarded with them. He was a brother of Ezra Weekes, who kept the famous City Hotel, and with his brother he could have boarded. But not so, with the Rings he stayed, because of Elma, and every one said they were promised to each other, and when the spring came were to be married. Well, then, this dreadful thing happened--Elma Sands went out with Levi Weekes one Sunday in December, 1799, and never again was she seen by any one. Distracted were her uncle and aunt, and everywhere, far and near, Elma was sought. It was no good. What I could do, I did, for I had watched the orphan girl grow from her childhood to her womanhood, and so sorry also was I for the uncle and aunt, who slept not, nor yet rested, and whose terrible suspense was ended in five weeks, by the finding of Elma’s body in a well eighty feet deep. Then the city went wild about her murder; for the appearance of the body left no room for doubt as to what poor Elma’s fate had been; and every one felt quite sure that Levi Weekes was the criminal.” Here madame paused and appeared to be much affected, and Achille, without a word, pushed a glass of water closer to her, and having drank of it, she continued:

“It was Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Burr that defended the prisoner; the prosecutor was Cadwallader D. Colden, and Chief Justice Lansing was the judge. On both sides there were great lawyers, and the trial was long and wearisome; but never were Elias Ring and his wife absent from it, no, not for one hour. So the end came at last. It was a stormy night in April that it came, and very late, and the court room was but dimly lighted, for some of the candles had burned themselves away, and had not been renewed, and the people had been listening to Hamilton’s speech, and thinking of nothing else. A great speech it was; my son Judge Bloommaert told me it was wonderful; and though every one was worn out, none left the building.

“Then Aaron Burr arose. Some facts he set forth in such a way as to throw all suspicion on the chief witness against Weekes; and while people were amazed at the charge, and no time had been given to examine it, or deny it, he lifted two candles from the table and flashed them in the face of the man he had accused; and as he did this thing he cried out in a voice like doom: ‘_Gentlemen, behold the murderer!_’ Shocked and terrified was the man, and like a foolish one he rushed from the room; and this cry of Aaron Burr’s the weary, excited jury took for the truth, and so then, Levi Weekes was declared ‘not guilty.’ Stupefied were all present, and before they could recover themselves from their astonishment Catherine Ring stood up. She was a Quakeress and to speak in public accustomed, and so, lifting her face and hands to heaven she refused the verdict; and gave the case ‘_to the justice of God and the vengeance of the Dead!_’

“I say plainly, every one was thrilled with awe and terror. Her voice was low and even, but straight to every heart it went; and those furthest away heard it clear and fateful as those close at her side. Mr. Hamilton began to put up his papers, but she stepped close to his side and said: ‘Alexander Hamilton, if there be justice in heaven, heaven will see that thee dies a bloody death; and thy helper shall help thee to it!’ At these words Burr rose, and looked at her with a smile, and she continued, ‘Take thy time, Aaron Burr. Thee need not hurry; thee will long for death, long before death will have thee. Nay, but thee shall be a dead man long before thee can hide thyself in the grave. And all that we have suffered in that long month of not knowing, thee shall suffer many times over. Dost thee think God had no witness in this room? Go thy way, Alexander Hamilton! Go thy way, Aaron Burr! There is _one that follows after_!’ She turned then to Judge Lansing, but he had left the bench. Then she touched her husband’s arm, and said: ‘Come, Elias, the unrighteous judge cannot escape the righteous one. Some day he will go out, and be heard of no more forever.’[2]

“And here is the wonderful thing--all the time she was dooming these three great men not one soul moved or spoke. The entire audience sat or stood silent and motionless; and when out of the court-room they went, it was as if they were leaving a church. And Elias and Catherine Ring passed through them, and though they had the pity and respect of all there, no one spoke to them, and no one stayed them. For every word of doom Catherine Ring had uttered had been heard; and her inspired face spoke to the crowd; Elias walking at her side praying aloud as he walked.

“My son Gerardus was present during the entire trial; he heard all, he saw all, and he told me the story I have just told you. And what I say is the truth--Hamilton’s earthly doom has been fulfilled; Burr is yet learning the unpitying vengence of the dead. That insane idea of conquest, who drove him to it? Who, at the critical hour, turned his confederates against him? Who sent him to wander in Europe a degraded, desperate man? What a cup of shame and poverty he drank there, I and a few others know. Then, when reckless with his misfortune, back he comes to New York, and for a short time he is lifted up by the many old acquaintances who remember his abilities and his sufferings. But only to be cast down is he lifted up. In less than one month he hears of the death of his grandson, a beautiful, intelligent boy of twelve years old, on whom all his future hopes were built. A terrible blow it was, but only the beginning of sorrow. Six months afterwards his idolised daughter left Charleston for New York. She was heartbroken by the loss of her son, and was coming to her father to be comforted. She sailed on the thirtieth of December, 1811, A. D., and ought to have been in New York about the fifth of January. She did not come. She never came. She was never heard of again. It was then Catherine Ring’s promised retribution overtook him. Who can tell what agonies of suspense he endured? There was daily hope, and there was daily despair! Such nights of grief! Such days of watching! His worst unfriends pitied him. To have heard of the unhappy woman would have pleased every one; but no, no, never a word came. When some weeks were gone over, there was a report that the ship in which she sailed had been taken by pirates, and all on board murdered except Mr. Burr’s daughter. She, it was said, had been put on shore a captive. The miserable man! He would not, he could not, bear this idea. He said to me one morning, as I talked with him at the garden gate, ‘Theodosia is dead! If she were not all the prisons in the world could not keep her from me!’ Well, then, all of you must remember the loss of Theodosia Burr Alston?”

“I was in New Orleans at the time,” said Leonard. “I heard nothing there, or if so, have forgotten.”

“I also was in New Orleans,” said Achille. “I do not remember--no, not at all.”

“I do remember,” said Sappha. “Mother was very sorry for Mr. Burr. We often spoke of him.”

“You never told me about it, grandmother,” added Annette. “Why did you not?”

“Good reasons had I. So much was there to say that could not be talked about. A great many people had yet in mind Catherine Ring’s words, and so Aaron Burr’s long watch for the child that never came was quietly and pitifully passed over. Yes, people remember; and if they do not remember they _feel_--they _feel_, they know not what. I have watched. One by one, I have seen those that welcomed Aaron Burr home drop away from him. This day a man stops and greets him, to-morrow he passes him by. The unlucky, they only stick to him; because for a familiar they know him. Aaron Burr is a doomed man--haunted by the wraiths of those he has wronged--a doomed man, and nothing that he does shall ever prosper.”

She ceased speaking with these words, and after some desultory conversation on the subject, Sappha said, “she must go home.” Then Annette went upstairs with her, and Achille made an effort to continue the subject; but neither madame nor yet Leonard were disposed for discussion; and when Sappha returned to the parlour, cloaked and wrapped in furs, Leonard hastily assumed his street costume and went out with her. Then the conversation, the warmth, and the drowsy light, added to the unusual feeling which the Ring tragedy had evoked, produced an effect upon madame she did not anticipate--she gradually lost consciousness, and finally fell asleep. For a while Achille and Annette spoke in whispers, and Annette tried all her powers to win from her companion the secret madame made so much of. He dallied with it, but kept it inviolate; and she dropped her pretty head with a sense of defeat that the circumstance hardly seemed to warrant. Quiet and speechless she sat, and Achille held her hand and watched the shadow of disappointment obliterate the dimples and smiles, not always as becoming in his eyes as her graver deportment. The glow of the firelight, the stillness thrilled through and through with that old tragedy of love, the look of defeat in Annette’s pretty face, and her whole attitude of submission to it, pleased the young man. He thought her more womanly and exquisite than ever before; and he kissed the hand he held, and said in the softest, sweetest voice: “I cannot tell you madame’s secret, but I will tell you one of my own--Annette, beautiful Annette, I love you.”

And Annette behaved with the most amazing propriety. He felt the little hand he held tremble to his words, and he saw on her face the transfiguration of love, though she did not lift it, or answer him in any other way. But this coy reticence was exactly the conduct Achille approved; and in that dim room, where only sleep kept vigil, Achille asked Annette to be his wife, and Annette answered him as he desired.

“I shall speak to madame in the morning,” he said; “to-night it will be too much.”

“It is too much even for me,” answered Annette; “I never dreamed of being so happy.”

“Nor I,” answered the fortunate lover. He then surrendered himself to her charm. He forgot how often he had privately declared he would never do so; forgot how often he had told himself that Annette de Vries was a beauty with

[Illustration: “IN THAT DIM ROOM, WHERE ONLY SLEEP KEPT VIGIL, ACHILLE ASKED ANNETTE TO BE HIS WIFE.”]

a heart like a little glacier. As for Annette, she was satisfied. In the first days of her acquaintance with Achille St. Ange she had resolved to be his wife; and her resolve was now in process of accomplishment. And after all, it had not been a difficult end to attain; a little love, a little listening, a little patience, a little persistence, and the man was won. It was only another case of proving the folly of any resistance to invincible woman. For has not all experience proved that if a woman seriously determines to marry a certain man she is about as sure to accomplish her end as if, wishing to reach Washington, she entered a train bound for that city?

During this scene between Annette and Achille Sappha and Leonard Murray were walking in the clear, frosty starlight. They were lovers, but their conversation was too anxious to be loverlike. Sappha was entreating Leonard to cancel his engagement with Mr. Burr. She was sure if he did not her father would permit no engagement with his daughter. “You will have to choose,” she said, “between Mr. Burr and myself. You cannot take both into your life, Leonard; I am sure it is impossible.” She did not name the Ring tragedy. She was far less impressed by it than Leonard had been. It was her father’s opposition she feared.

Not so Leonard. He had inherited from his Scotch ancestors a vivid vein of supernatural tendency. His own clan had numerous traditions of posthumous revenge, so vindictive that Leonard’s first unconscious commentary on madame’s narrative was the whispered exclamation--only heard by Achille--“The vengeance of the dead is terrible!” But if there was this latent fear in his heart, mingled with the personal one that association might include him in that vengeance, the feeling was strongly combated by another inherited tendency, so vital as to be almost beyond reasoning with--the sentiment of loyalty to a person or a cause to which he had once given his allegiance. It had been a kind of insanity in his clan, for they had always gathered to the last man in the cause of their exiled kings, though they knew right well that to stand by the Stuarts was to stand by misfortune and death.

So, tossed between these two horns of a dilemma, Leonard could not make Sappha the unconditional promise she asked. He had given to Aaron Burr a fealty founded on an intense admiration for his great abilities and his great wrongs. The physical charm of the man had also fascinated Leonard, as it fascinated almost every one who came fairly under its influence; and thus, though warned by one ancestral strain to retire from some malignity he could not control, he was urged forward by another sentiment which put his word, his honour, his friendship, and his loyalty before all other considerations.

These underlying motives of action were but partially understood by Leonard, and were not comprehended in any measure by Sappha. But at eighteen years of age we do not need to know, in order to feel; we can feel without knowledge; and Sappha was certain that the association of her lover with a man so unfortunate as Mr. Burr would include both of them in its inimical proneness to calamity.

The mingling of these elements in Leonard’s nature must be recognised before we can understand how a lover, earnest and devoted, could hesitate about casting adrift a friendship so recent when it threatened a tie still fonder and more personal. But the most invulnerable sentiments a man has to conquer are those he brings with him from previous incarnations. Prejudices and opinions planted in his mind during last year, or the present year, will have a demonstrative vitality; but there is a stubborn quality about those we bring with us that is only gained by passing through the grave and tasting of immortality. If Sappha’s and Leonard’s love for each other was not of the past, then it was hardly one year old; yet she was demanding for it a sacrifice of feelings incorporate in Leonard’s nature from unknown centuries.

They walked together talking only of Mr. Burr for more than an hour; then Sappha said “she was cold and must go into the house.” She was not so much cold as weary. We are always weary when we do not understand, and Sappha could not understand why Mr. Burr should interfere in her affairs. At the door Leonard spoke to her about the theatre on Friday night, and she promised to give her father and mother his invitation. “It is too late to detain you longer, my beloved,” he said; “but I will call early in the morning for the answer. I hope they will accept my offer. It will make me very proud and happy.”

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.

MY DEAR GERARDUS AND CARLITA:

I have to announce to you the engagement of Annette to my friend Achille St. Ange. I am pleased with Annette’s choice, and her marriage will probably take place on her next birthday, the seventh day of June, on which day, as you know, she comes of age. I wish no objections to be made. Annette has pleased herself, and done well to herself, and what more can be expected?

Your affectionate mother, JONACA BLOMMAERT.

P. S.--Tell Sappha I wish to see her very early in the morning. I have a pleasant piece of news for her.

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.