CHAPTER EIGHT

_The Rose of Renunciation_

As Leonard dressed himself he recollected the guard-room quarrel and smiled. It seemed really so ridiculous and ineffectual; yet he resolved to avoid Gilson as much as possible. “The man was drunk,” he thought, “but sober or drunk, he has an envious nature, and a tongue ready for ill words. Perhaps he may seek me out and continue his offensive behavior. What then?” He pondered this likelihood a few moments, and then asked himself cheerfully:

“Why should I worry about the probability of such a thing? As if it mattered.” But it is hard to tell what matters, though safe enough to say that in conduct it is best not to make trifles of trifles. For there is an amazing vitality in some trifles, and we know not which may abortively pass and which may become of momentous importance.

Yet, for two days Leonard hardly thought of Gilson and his drunken abuse; or if it entered his mind it was only as an annoying and commonplace event that he was in no way responsible for. He had not one fear that it could possibly have any serious effect upon his life. And as it happened the two days following Annette’s dinner party were exceedingly happy ones to Sappha and Leonard. One of them was spent with Madame Bloommaert in Nassau Street, and another with Annette at the Semple house. Then came Saturday, and Leonard went early in the afternoon to the Bowling Green. It was a very warm day, the parlour windows in Judge Bloommaert’s house were open, and Sappha was sitting in the sunshine happily indolent. She smiled a thousand welcomes as he entered, but did not move, for her lap was full of knotted embroidery silks, and Leonard seated himself at her side, and together they began to slowly unravel and sort the tangled skeins. So happy, so merry, were they! their hands touching, their heads touching, light laughter and loving whispers feeding their hearts with a full content.

When the judge came home Sappha and Leonard rose gaily to meet him, but they were both chilled by his manner, which was constrained and unfriendly. A sense of something unpleasant swept out of cognisance the innocent mirth that had pervaded the room; and in a moment its mental atmosphere was changed. It was embarrassing, because Leonard did not like to presume there was an offence--it might be only a passing mood, and the mood might be caused by something or by some person outside of their interference. So the suddenly checked lovers sat silent, or only made whispered remarks about the condition of the silks.

One of these remarks attracted the judge’s attention, and he turned to the apparently busy young man and said: “Sappha has given you a pretty tangle to straighten out--Leonard.” He spoke Leonard’s name with a hesitation that was almost like a withdrawal of the position that had been given him, and Leonard felt the reluctance keenly, yet he answered with much cheerfulness.

“Patience will win her way, sir--she does in every tangle. One by one the knots are being untied.”

“You might cut them,” said the judge.

“That would be wasteful and foolish, sir. No one would be the gainer, and no one would be satisfied. I will unravel them--with Sappha’s help.”

“Well, Leonard,”--this time the name was spoken a little more pleasantly--“well, Leonard, I can tell you there is an ugly tangle up the street for you either to cut, or to unravel. And I must say, I am astonished, not to say displeased, at your neglecting it for three days.”

“A tangle up the street, sir,--a tangle I have neglected!”

“You certainly have not forgotten your quarrel with Horace Gilson?”

“Oh, I had no quarrel with the fellow! How could I? He was drunk.”

“Not too drunk to tell you that you had only three months’ worth of patriotism; not too drunk to bid you buy a little dog-courage with your dirty dollars. Sir, you ought to have stopped such remarks as quickly as they were made--yes, sir, they ought to have been stopped peremptorily, whether they were drunk or sober remarks.”

“But, judge, you cannot talk to a drunken man--you cannot reason with a drunken man----”

“Well, then, you can knock him down. That is an argument even a drunken man will understand.”

“Father!” cried Sappha with indignation, as she stood with flashing eyes before him. “Father, to knock a drunken man down would be as bad as to knock an insane man down. In both cases it would be brutal.”

“When men make themselves into brutes it is just to treat them like brutes.”

“I never heard such nonsense! such cruel nonsense! I think Leonard did quite right to ignore the fellow.”

“You have no business, miss, to think anything about such subjects. Go to your mother.”

“Mother went to Nassau Street long ago.”

“I want her. Tell her to come home immediately. And I do not want you. It is necessary for me to speak to Leonard alone.”

“Very well. I shall go for mother.” But ere she left the room she took Leonard’s hands in hers and kissed him. There was a whispered word also, which the judge did not hear, but the girl’s act of sympathy was irritating enough. He drew his lips wide and tight, and as soon as Sappha closed the door he said:

“Now, sir, what are you going to do? Gilson has been vapouring from Dan to Beersheba about your--cowardice, and your want of patriotism; and Mr. Ogden told me that when he instanced your frequent generous loans to the city Gilson laughed and said you had made forty per cent. on them. ‘You and your father,’ he added, ‘were both canny Scots, and knew cleverly how to rub one dollar into two.’”

“Judge, my father----”

“Wait a little. Why have you not been in any of your usual resorts since Wednesday night? It does not look right--the rascal has had a clear field for all the scurrilous lies he chose to tell.”

“Sir, if I had known that the man was lying soberly about me, I would surely have given him openly the name he merits. But I did not dream that he would dare to say out of liquor what he said in liquor; for he is a quaking coward, and as fearful as a whipped child. Others are behind him in this bluster. Alas, my money has never brought me anything but envy and ill-will--no matter how heartily I give it! What would you advise me to do, sir?”

“Make the man hold his tongue.”

“How?”

The judge was silent a moment, then with a touch of scorn he answered: “There is the law. Sue him for slander. He is said to be worth twenty thousand dollars. Lay your damages at twenty thousand. Your friend, Mr. Burr, will defend your case very feelingly, no doubt.”

And with some anger Leonard answered: “That course is out of the question, sir.”

“Well, then, write a letter to the newspapers.”

“I do not propose to lend the fellow’s words so much importance.”

“Then give him his lies back generally, and particularly--give him them back on the street, and in the guard-room, or wherever you meet him--and make a point of meeting him, here, there, and everywhere.”

“That is what I propose to do. Then, sir, egged on by those whose cue he is now following, he will probably challenge me. Shall I accept his challenge?”

“I am not your conscience keeper, Leonard.”

“Put the question then, as a matter of social expediency.”

“If the social verdict is what you want, ask Achille St. Ange. He is a good authority.”

“Once more, sir. If I lift this foolish business to the moral plane, what do you say?”

“Zounds! Leonard, I have told you already that morally judging this question I hold the Decalogue as a finality!” And with these words the judge rose to his feet. It was evident he had no more to say on the subject, and Leonard bid him “good-afternoon” and left the house. There had been throughout the interview a want of sympathy in the judge’s manner that insinuated suspicion, or at least uncertainty, and Leonard was pained and offended by it. Judge Bloommaert had known him intimately, yet he had permitted the evil tongue of a stranger to influence his own experience. Angry tears rose unconsciously to his eyes, and he asked himself what did it profit a man to be truthful and generous, if any dastardly liar could smear and cancel the noblest record? He walked up the Bowling Green with a burning heart, but Sappha had whispered her promise to be near the statue; and he soon saw the flutter of her white gown as she came to meet him. They entered the enclosure and sat down on a bench facing that heroic representation of Washington, which, made of wood, shaped and coloured to imitate the rosiest glow of life, was the best artistic effort New York was capable of one hundred years ago.[3] But even if Sappha and Leonard had been conscious of its artistic defects, they cared little for them at that hour. Their own affairs were too urgent, too perilously near to trouble again. And though Sappha was full of sympathy and quite determined to uphold Leonard in all he had done and was going to do, yet she at once gave vent to her womanish fears in the essentially provoking query: “Oh, Leonard, why did you not show yourself in the city the last three days? You might have known people would say you were afraid of that dreadful man.”

“Dear Sappha!” he answered, “will you, too, oblige me to explain that my absence from my usual haunts the last three days was quite accidental; you wanted me to go to Nassau Street with you Thursday, and your grandmother kept us all day. You wanted me to go to the Semple house with you Friday, and Annette and Achille kept us all day. This morning my lawyer brought to the hotel a number of papers and accounts, and it was noon before we had reviewed them. Then we had a meal together, and afterwards I came to you. How could I imagine Gilson’s unmerited abuse of me? And it seems I had no friend or acquaintance willing to take the trouble to tell me how the man was slandering me behind my back--everything, and every one, was against me.”

“Father told you as soon as he heard the scandal.”

“Yes, but not very kindly. There was a taste of doubt in all he said. And he would give me no positive straight-forward advice. I feel completely at sea as regards his wishes. I am going this evening to talk the matter over with Achille.”

“Oh, no! Oh, no! Achille will urge you to fight the low creature. I cannot bear that, Leonard.”

“There is not the least danger. Gilson would be a child in my hands.”

“You never know. Accidents happen--you must be out of practice, and then, it cannot be right. I don’t believe you are afraid--I am sure you are not--but I do not want you to fight. I am afraid--I am a mortal coward about you. You must not accept a challenge, if he sends one. I shall die of fear. I shall, indeed.”

“If it should become necessary to fight, I am any man’s equal. My sword and my hands are trained to perfection. Even Achille admits my superiority. I, personally, should not be in the least danger. In fact, I am both with sword and pistol so much more expert than Gilson that it would be almost cowardice, as well as cruelty, to meet him in a duel. There could be no justice in such a trial of right or wrong--but how few people can know this? Or knowing it, feel that it might bind me as an honourable man to refuse the duel.”

“I pray you, Leonard, take my advice, and do not go to Achille. It would be ‘fight, of course you must fight,’ with Achille. He would hear of nothing else. And for my sake, Leonard, you must not fight. In the long run, father would be angry if you did, and perhaps make it an excuse for separating us. Leonard, promise me on your honour not to fight. If you come to me with bloody hands I will not take them. And if you let out life with either sword or pistol your hand will be forevermore bloody. No water will cleanse it, no good woman will touch it, no saint in heaven clasp it--better cut it off, and cast it from you, than stain it for all eternity.” She was quivering with feeling, her eyes were full of tears, and her voice had those tones of tender authority which subjugate as well as persuade.

“My dear darling little preacher,” Leonard answered, “I promise you these hands shall never do anything to make them unworthy to clasp yours.” And he took her hand, pressed it firmly between his own, and kissed his promise upon it. Then she rose smiling; they walked together to madame’s house, and at the gate they parted.

But though somewhat comforted, Leonard did not feel as if the way before him had been either cleared or lightened; in fact, his promise to Sappha had in some measure closed the only apparent exit out of the dilemma. At the moment of promising he had been carried away by his love, and had not thought of contingencies; but as soon as he was alone “the tangle” became more and more of a tangle; and unfortunately it was Saturday evening; the streets were quiet, business nearly over for the week, men generally either at home with their families, or enjoying in their company the sail up the river or the concert on the Battery.

Not knowing what to do, or where to go, he did nothing, and went nowhere but to his rooms in the City Hotel. He was determined to make no false step. Hurry in this matter might have calamitous consequences. Out of just such false, wicked words lifelong tragedies had often come. And there was Sappha--he must consider Sappha before himself.

The next day being Sabbath, he went to the Garden Street Church in the morning and to Trinity Church in the afternoon. In both houses he met acquaintances, whose recognition of him appeared to be cooler and more constrained than usual. But then he knew that he was suspicious, and the change was probably only an imaginary one. When he left Trinity he walked northward to the Semple house, and on the way met at least two painful incidents, which were not imagination: When opposite the City Hall Park he saw Doctor Stevens and his wife approaching him, and as soon as they perceived Leonard they crossed Broadway and entered the park. And as this movement took them off the direct way to their home Leonard was justified in believing they had made it to avoid a meeting with him. The circumstance pained and angered him. He turned quickly into Chambers Street, and saw Mr. Leonard Fisher coming towards him. Now, Mr. Fisher was one of the officers of the Washington Benevolent Society, of which society Leonard had been the most active member. On business of relief and charity he had come constantly in contact with Mr. Fisher, and always in a temper of friendly courtesy. He expected nothing but a kindly greeting from him, but when he was half a block distant Mr. Fisher crossed the street, and as Leonard passed he kept his eyes stubbornly set on some object in front of him.

Burning with a sense of wrong and injustice, Leonard hastened forward and threw himself upon Achille’s friendship. Here he was not disappointed. Achille entered into his feelings and espoused his cause with complete understanding and ardent sympathy. He acknowledged Francis de Mille had said something of the slander to him on the previous day, but that he had laughed away the words as utterly preposterous, and De Mille had let the subject drop. “But,” he added, “it can be dropped no longer. Judge Bloommaert is right. The rascal has had a clear field too long--now, he must be made to acknowledge his lies, as lies; and then hold his tongue about your affairs forever.”

“What is to be done, Achille?”

“There is but one way--for a man of honour. You must challenge him immediately.”

“I suppose so--but Sappha is distressed at the idea. I fear I shall lose her if I do. And the judge is against the practice.”

“Those questions come afterwards. Women know not their own minds. If you fail to punish this ill-tongued fellow, Sappha, in her heart, will despise you--and the judge also. Take my word for that--so will all honourable men. You remember that affair in New Orleans? Duplicate it.”

This last remark seemed to give a sudden light and hope to Leonard. He smiled and said cheerfully: “That would be sufficient; thank you, Achille. Now then, where am I most likely to meet Gilson? Do you know his haunts or the places he most frequents?”

“We can easily find them out. Our host of the City Hotel will doubtless be able to give us information. Look here, Leonard, I have the plan!” and he took paper and pencil from his pocket, and the two bent over it in consultation for about half an hour. Then Annette joined them, and they went to the dinner table, and afterwards Achille told Annette the dilemma into which Leonard had fallen. He said nothing of a duel, however; neither did Annette, a circumstance which would have convinced any woman that she anticipated that result, and was carefully pondering it. That Leonard stayed with them all night, and that Achille went out with him early in the morning, was to her substantial confirmation of her suspicions.

Privately, she was very angry. Why should her husband relate himself and his spotless honour with a man whose character had been so shamefully defamed? It was in Annette’s eyes a piece of Quixotic imprudence. She thought Achille ought to have remembered that he had a wife and daughter, and that, at least, her approval should have been asked. She said to herself that it was not unlikely there was some truth in all Mr. Gilson had asserted. Men so available as Leonard Murray were likely to be womanish; and he was always dangling after Sappha Bloommaert. Gilson had been talking for three days. It was strange, indeed, that Leonard had not stopped such imputations at once. “I don’t believe he was ignorant of them,” she said, and in her passion she uttered the words aloud: “He knew all about Gilson’s abuse, but he thought the man would grow weary, or go away, or that Achille or some of his friends, would lift the quarrel for him. And when none of these conveniences have come, then he has sought out my husband. Oh, yes! he knew Achille was always ready for a fight--it is a shame! I am not going to permit it; Leonard Murray must conduct his own quarrels.”

To such thoughts she nursed her surmised wrongs all day; and as Achille did not return home until very late she had become hysterical under the pressure of their certainty. Nor did her husband’s evasive carelessness allay her anxiety; she was not consoled by his smiles, nor by the light kiss with which he advised her “to sleep and forget her imaginary fears.” This course was not possible to Annette; she lay awake considering and planning until the dawn. Then, when she ought to have been on the alert, she fell into the dead sleep of utter mental and physical weariness.

In this interval Achille arose, dressed with some care, and calling Annette’s maid, left with her his “remembrances for madame, and the assurance that he would be home for dinner.” Annette did not believe the message. She asked for the hour, and decided there was yet a possibility of finding her uncle Bloommaert at his home. While she hastily dressed, her carriage was prepared, and she reached the Bowling Green house just as the judge was descending the steps. She arrested him midway. “Uncle,” she sobbed, “I am in trouble about Achille. I want you to help me.”

“What is the matter with Achille? Have you been scolding? Has he run away from you?”

“I cannot bear jokes this morning, uncle. I think Achille has gone to fight a duel.”

“Nonsense!”

“Yes, I am sure he is going to fight that low creature, Horace Gilson. You know----”

“Twofold nonsense. He has nothing to do with the man. That is Leonard Murray’s business.”

“But Leonard came to Achille on Sunday night. He was full of shame and anger about every one passing him without recognition; and I am sure he must have deserved the slight, or Doctor and Mrs. Stevens and Mr. Fisher would not have done so--on a Sunday, just coming out of church, too, when people ought to feel friendly.”

“Come, come, Annette, this is all foolishness, and I am in no mood for it this morning. If Leonard has been insulted, he knows how to right himself--and that, without Achille’s help. Gilson is a low, scurrilous creature, and I hope Leonard will give him a lesson.”

“Uncle! Uncle! You must not go away without helping me.”

“Good gracious, Annette! What am I to do? What can I do? If Achille wishes to stand by Leonard in this matter, nothing I can say will prevent it. And, by George, I do not intend to say anything! As for Achille fighting Gilson, that is absurd. Leonard Murray is no special favourite of mine, but I am sure he is a young man who can do his own fighting, and who will let no one else do it for him. Leonard will fight Gilson, if fighting is necessary.”

“But, uncle, you ought not to put me off in this way. I shall go to grandmother and tell her.”

“Well, Annette, that is a dreadful threat--but you will find your grandmother no more sympathetic, in this case, than I am.”

“_So!_ Perhaps, however, you will attend to what aunt Carlita says. Come into the house and let us ask her.”

“I will not waste any more time, Annette; nor will I sanction you annoying your aunt this morning. She has had one of her worst headaches all night long, and has just fallen on sleep. Do not attempt to awaken her. And you must say nothing unpleasant to Sappha. She is worried already, and she has been up with her mother all night. Do have self-control enough to keep your ridiculous fears to yourself--or if you cannot, then go to your grandmother, or better still, go home. Home is the proper place for foolish women, full of their own fears and fancies.”

With these words he went down the steps, and Annette watched him angrily. For a moment or two she considered his advice to “go to her grandmother”; then suddenly, with a passionate motion of her head, she lifted the knocker and let it fall several times with unmistakable decision.

Sappha, who was busy in the back parlour, ran hastily into the hall, and when she saw Annette advanced to meet her with a lifted finger and a “hush!” upon her lips. “Mother has had such a bad night,” she said softly, “and now she is sleeping. Come in here, Annette, as quietly as possible. What is the matter? I hope Jonaca is well. Why, Annette, you are crying!”

“Yes, and it is you who ought to be crying! Yet you appear perfectly unconcerned.”

“But why ought I to be crying? You know mother has had these headaches all her life. This attack is no worse than usual.”

“_Mother! Mother!_ I am not thinking of your mother! I am thinking of Leonard Murray.”

“Is anything wrong with Leonard?”

“I do not know what you call wrong. The whole city considers him shamefully wrong! No one will speak to him! He is disgraced beyond everything! I am ashamed, I am burning with anger, to think that he might have been through you connected with my family--I mean the De Vries family. And I am distracted about Achille. He came to Achille on Sunday night--”

“Who came to Achille?”

“Leonard Murray, of course. And he almost cried about the way people had insulted him--coming out of church, too. And, I suppose, indeed, I am sure, that Achille promised to help him, and stand by him, and fight that man Gilson for him----”

“Stop, Annette! You are not speaking the truth now. You are, at least, under a false impression. If Gilson is to be fought, Leonard will fight him. Make no mistake about that. Leonard is no coward; and a man need not be foolhardy to prove himself brave--only cowards are afraid to be called cowards. My father has said that very often.”

“And pray what comes of such ideas? When a man is insulted they lead to nothing. I have just been talking to my uncle Gerardus, and he thinks precisely as I do. To let a man go up and down calling you a thief and a coward, and say nothing, and do nothing, is neither moral nor respectable. That is Leonard Murray’s position. And I think it a shame that I have to be kept on the rack for two days about your lover. I never troubled you about Achille; and I am not well, and when I am sick then dear little Jonaca is sick--and I have had to get up this morning hours before the proper time and leave my house, and my child about your lover, just because he cannot manage his own troubles; troubles, also, that he has made for himself.”

“You do not know what you are saying, Annette. Your temper carries you beyond truth. Leonard did not make this trouble----”

“Oh, yes, he did. His pride and self-conceit are intolerable. His patronage of people is offensive. And Achille and I have often noticed how purse-proud he was----”

“It is a shame to say such things, Annette. You know they are slander--wicked slander! No man was ever less concerned about his wealth, in fact, he----”

“Oh, we can let that subject drop--we all know how he spreads abroad his money. I am speaking now of his cowardice. Every one is speaking of it; rich and poor alike. He is a byword on the Exchange. He will never have another invitation to any respectable house. Even I must shut my doors against him--and, to be sure, no nice girl will ever be seen with him again.”

“All that you are saying is cruelly false, Annette; you are trying to pain and terrify me----”

“What good would that do me? I am only telling you what you ought to know.”

“But why? Why are you telling me?”

“Because I am angry at you. Why did you advise Leonard to come to Achille for help?”

“I did not advise him to come to Achille. How could Achille help Leonard? The idea!”

“I say plainly that Achille is now seeking that man Gilson, and if he meets him before Leonard does--which he is sure to do--he will challenge him at once.”

“How ridiculous! Achille has no quarrel with Gilson. Why should he challenge him?”

“Because of the things he has charged Leonard with. And Achille’s honour is so sensitive, and he is so passionate, the dispute will end in Achille making it his own quarrel. Then he will fight Gilson, before Leonard even succeeds in meeting him.”

“I hope he will!” said Sappha with affected satisfaction.

“You wicked girl! To say such a thing to a wife and a mother! Oh, now, I think you are none too good for Leonard Murray! By all means marry him--only for decency’s sake take yourselves out of New York! There are places where wealth will cloak cowardice. England, for instance!”

“All these stories you tell about Leonard are downright lies. Yes, I shall marry him, and we shall stay here--in New York. Do you understand? And if you were not insane with temper I would promise myself never to speak to you again, Annette St. Ange. Cowardice, indeed! You, yourself, are at this moment suffering from cowardice. Your fear of Achille being hurt has made you suspicious, unjust, slanderous. And Leonard and I must endure your shameful words--a woman has no redress. I am going to leave you. You have willingly wounded and insulted me--without any reason at all. I hope you will be sorry for it----”

“I am sorry, Sappha. Do not go away. I am sorry for you--that is the reason of my temper; and it is Leonard, not you, I am angry at.”

“We will not name Leonard. If he is all you say, he is not fit for you to talk about.”

“No, indeed!”

“I think you had better go home, Annette. You are making yourself, and me, also, ill; for nothing.”

“For nothing! That is all the thanks I receive for getting up so early and coming to warn and advise you.”

“I wish you had not come.”

“I shall go now and tell grandmother. She will perhaps be able to make you see things properly. I hope you will not make yourself sick about Leonard----”

“It is not my way.”

“If a girl’s lover turns out badly, she ought not to cry about him--it is neither moral nor respectable. I say this, Sappha, politely and kindly.”

“Thank you, politely and kindly, Annette.”

“I hope Leonard may come out of this affair better than we think.”

“Thank you. I hope Achille may come out of this affair better than we think.”

The clash of the front door emphasised this provoking bit of courtesy, and Sappha flew like a bird to her room, that she might conceal the tumult of outraged feelings warring within her. And then as soon as she was alone all her anger fled from Annette to Leonard. She accused him with bitter unreason; for at this hour she was insensible to everything but the painfully humiliating results of what she still mentally called “his quarrel” with Horace Gilson. And, oh, how Annette had hurt her! For Annette had not yet learned how to endure; and they who can bear nothing are themselves unbearable.

For two hours she gave full sway to her insurgent feelings; but at the last every mental struggle ended in her blaming Leonard. Leonard, for her sake, ought to have avoided such a degrading quarrel--Leonard ought to have faced it the first thing the following morning, instead of that he had trifled away the whole day in Nassau Street, and the next day at Annette’s, and now Annette felt that she had the right to call his courtesy cowardice.

“Well, then, it looks like cowardice!” she sobbed passionately, “and then Saturday he told me some story about his lawyer detaining him--never once did he name Gilson to me. It looks like---- _Oh, wee! oh, wee!_ my heart will break with the shame of it! Every one will pity me. Even if some make excuses for Leonard, I shall know it is only pity for me--only pity! I cannot bear it! I cannot think of it! Father and mother must take me away--no, no, I must face the shame, smile at it, what they call ‘live it down.’ Oh, what shall I say? What shall I do? And mother is too ill to trouble. And to father I cannot complain of Leonard. Oh, Leonard! Leonard! Leonard!”

And it was while tossed from wave to wave on this flood tide of anger and sorrow that she was told Leonard was waiting to see her. She rose up hastily. Had she taken a few moments to calm herself everything might have been different. But even her opening of the doors between herself and her lover betrayed the whirl and tumult of the feelings that distracted her. Nor was this mental storm soothed by Leonard’s presence. He came eagerly forward to meet her; a pleasant smile on his face and a white rose in his hand. She took the flower from him, and threw it down upon the table; and he regarded her with amazement. Her face, her attitude, the passion of her movements, arrested the words he was eager to utter; and in that fateful pause Sappha’s unguarded, unconsidered accusations fell like the voice of doom upon his senses.

“You are a byword among men! No nice girl will be seen with you! You will never again be asked to any respectable house! Annette says so! She will be even compelled to shut her door against you!”

“Sappha, Sappha! Do you know what you are saying?”

“Only too well I know it. Annette has just been here. She has told me all. You left her to tell me. Why did you not come yourself? Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, all these days I have been in suspense and misery.”

“Listen to me, Sappha, I----”

“It is too late now. Annette has told me. I have heard it all--my heart is broken--I shall die of shame. Every one will pity me. I cannot, I cannot bear it----”

“Stop one moment, Sappha. Do you believe Annette? Do you think she will be forced to shut her door against me?”

“She says so.”

“Then Judge Bloommaert may have the same obligation--and you also. If you can believe this, you can believe anything that is said against me, your promised husband. It is I who am heartbroken. It is I who must feel shame. It is I who must go all my life in the fiery shadow of wrong and injustice. Sappha, you have known me as no other person has known me,--in my inmost soul,--and yet you can believe I deserve such treatment?”

“How can I tell? If you had done anything to right yourself----”

“Oh, that is not the question. You should have trusted me through everything, and in spite of every one. You have failed me just when I needed most your love and confidence. If Annette tells you I ought to be shut out of your heart and house, you will believe her! What is your love worth? It is only a summer day’s idyll. The first chill wind of disapproval kills it. I will go before I am shut out. In future days it may be easier for you to remember that I closed the door on my own happiness. Oh, Sappha, Sappha! lighter than vapour is your love--and I had built my life upon it!”

His face expressed more indignation than distress. He lifted the rose she had flung down and looked at it with a moment’s pity; then he pushed it toward her.

“It is my last offering,” he said. “Take it. And as it fades, forget me. I shall never give you shame or trouble again.”

Then anger took entire possession of Sappha; and anger does everything wrong. She lifted the rose and cried out amid her passionate weeping:

“I will not wait for it to fade. No, I will forget you _now! now! now!_” and as she uttered the words she ruthlessly tore off the white petals, scattered them on the floor at his feet--and was gone.

Her tears, her shivering words, the utter passion of misery and tenderness that made the action almost like the slaying of a living creature, so stupefied and fascinated Leonard that for a moment he could neither move nor speak. When he recovered himself he ran to the foot of the stairs and called her. “Sappha! Sappha!” he cried. “Sappha, come back to me, I have something to tell you.” But she was gone. A slight flutter of her white gown as she turned the last angle was all he saw; and if she heard his appeal she did not answer it.

For a few minutes he waited, but the laughter of the negroes in the kitchen, coming faintly through the baize-lined doors, was the only sound he heard. Then he returned to the parlour and carefully gathered, one by one, the torn leaves. The last note Sappha had sent him was in his pocket book. He placed them between the sheets and, shutting them in the book, put it in his breast.

What was he so still for? What had he done? What had come to him? Blast, or blight, or fire, or fever? He picked up the torn rose leaves as if they were bits of his heart, and the door clashed behind him and seemed to shake the very foundations of his life. He knew that he was walking, but his heart hung heavy at his feet. All he loved was behind him--he was drifting, drifting into a darkness where love and joy would never again find him. Oh, it is only

“---- the Lord above, He only knows the strength of Love; He only knows, and He only can, The root of Love that is in a man.”