The Belle of Bowling Green
know what young men are. Suppose Leonard should show Sappha’s letters to
some companion.”
“Suppose an impossibility, Gerardus.”
“Not so. A man in love is always a vain man, if his love is returned. He
has conquered, and he puts on all the airs of a victor. He usually wants
some one to admire and envy him, and a love letter is a visible proof of
his prowess among women. I would not allow Sappha to write.”
“Then you are in the wrong, my dear one. Nothing is better for a lover
than a course of love letters. It is the finest education for
marriage.”
“They say so many extravagant things.”
“Very well. That is good. They get used to saying fine things, then they
feel them, and ’tis no harm at all for a lover to write down his
mistress ‘an angel.’ He may treat her the better for it, all their lives
together.”
“So! so! Take thy own foolish way, wife. I do not forget thy dear little
love notes--and ever the few leaves of sweet brier in them. I can smell
it yet.”
So Sappha had her love letters, and she also wrote them. Leonard’s were
like himself, frankly outspoken, full of extravagancy, both in love and
war. “He loved her as never man loved before;” and she saw the words
shine on the paper, and believed in them with all her soul. “He longed
for those unspeakable English tyrants to come within reach of their
guns, they would be sunk twenty fathoms deep in no time--then, then,
then, oh, then he would fly to her, as a bird to its nest!” Love and
glory mingled thus, until love took entire possession; then the
conclusion was a passionate exploiting of that yearning word “_why?_”
“_Why_ could they not be married when he returned? _Why_ should they
wait? _Why_ did she not think as he did? _Why_ consider the war at all?
_Why_ let that old tyrant of a motherland called England interfere in
their happiness? _Why_ let anything? Or anybody?” There had been little
parties of visitors at the Narrows, “_Why_ had she not persuaded her
father and mother to sail so far with her? _Why_, in short, did she not
understand that life was dreadfully dull in the fort, and that a sight
of her would be heaven to him? _Why? Why? Why_ did she not love him as
wildly and fondly and eternally as he loved her?”
All this exaggeration was the most beautiful truth to Sapphira. She
adored her lover for the very prodigality of his pleas and
protestations. It was right and proper that lovers should suffer all the
pangs of separation; she was rather proud of Leonard’s wailing and
complaining; and careful not to comfort it too much, by comparing it
with her own. Indeed she rather affected the style of a sweet little
mentor, bound to remind him that he must love honour, even before
herself. And she so blended their own hopes and happiness with domestic
and public affairs as to make her letters all that a daily paper might
be to a man shut up in prison, or in a fort in a wilderness. Leonard saw
through them, the New York he loved, the busy, hopeful people, talking,
trading, singing, smoking, loving, living through every sense they had;
and he felt with the keenest delight all Sappha’s sweet
self-disparagements and compunctions for her own happiness and good
fortune in being beloved by him.
“I cannot tell you, my own dear friend,” she wrote on the sixth of
November, “how happy your assurances of affection make me. People who
are very, very happy do not know how to write down their joy. I have no
words but the old, old ones--I do so love you! If I but think of your
name, I bless it forever. When your letters come, I kiss the seal
before I open them; when I write you a letter I look love into every
word I write. My father does not speak of you--oh, there is so much else
for him to talk of! My mother looks only the sweet sympathy she will not
utter, until my father wills it--and in that she is right, I think.
Annette may suspect, but she knows nothing certainly; our secret is very
much our own yet, and the dearer for it. You would say so also, if you
could see and hear New York at the present time. In spite of our small
deprivations, we are all very happy. The militia stationed here are
having a most sociable time, and there are parades and reviews
constantly in progress. The theatre is now filled every night it is
open, and if only some gallant privateer, or some sailor from the ships
comes in, the performance has to stop until he has been cheered to the
skies. I am sorry, my dearest friend, that you did not join the navy;
for just now sailors are the idols of our city--I do not mean that--oh,
no! I could not bear to think of you at sea. I am counting the days and
the hours now. I heard mother tell Annette that the men at the Narrows
would be home for the great parade on Evacuation Day, Annette clapped
her hands and said ‘then Leonard Murray will return to us; and I shall
ask grandmother to give him a dinner. He will be so glad to see me,’ she
added, ‘and I shall be so glad to see him.’ She put me out of
calculation, and I did not mind; for if _you_ remember, what care I if
all the world forgets me? It is too bad the English ships will not give
you a chance of glory, we have almost forgot how to fear them. Every
one is in high spirits; we have no doubt of God, nor our country, nor of
our brave sailors and soldiers. And, oh, Leonard! dear, dear Leonard, I
have not one doubt of you. So then I send you my heart; for I do trust
you, Leonard, for all the joy that life shall bring me. Yes I do! I do!
Sappha.”
Such foolish words! Ah, no! Such words of delightful wisdom! And happy
indeed is the woman who in her youth hides such letters away in her Book
of Life. They will sweeten every page of it--even to the very end.
CHAPTER FOUR
_Introduces Mr. Achille St. Ange_
On the afternoon of November the twenty-fifth Annette was sitting with
her grandmother in the comfortable, large living room which the elder
woman loved. Outside the day was extraordinarily beautiful for the
season. The sky was nearly cloudless, the balmy air had just that snap
of early frost which made it exhilarating, and there was not a breath of
wind. The tall, straight Michaelmas daisies stood radiantly still in
their late purple glory; the golden marigolds glowed at their feet;
every twig, and every blade of grass might have been cut out of stone.
It was a speechless, motionless, spell-bound garden, lit up with a flood
of winter sunshine.
Madame had her knitting in her hand, but she was not busy with it; her
gaze was fixed upon Annette, who was fastening more carefully the silver
spangles on a gown of blue gauze. “Madame Duval barely catches them,”
she said plaintively, “and I suppose there will be dancing to-night.”
“I do not think there will be anything of the kind, Annette. Your aunt
will have to use the largest room for dinner, and dinner dishes are not
moved by magic. Also, I do not intend to remain there all night; so fine
is the weather we can easily return home. It has been such a tumultuous
day that I shall need sleep, and out of my own bed I never get it.”
“But the parade was splendid, grandmother; and I am sure you are glad
you saw it.”
“Oh, my child, my years it made me count. So well I remember the first
Evacuation Day parade. General Washington and the victorious army led
it. Then I wept because your grandfather was not among living
heroes--to-day I did not weep--so soon we shall meet again.” A sound of
distant music arrested speech, and they listened in silence till it died
away. Then Annette said: “There are to be so many public dinners, and
the theatre is to be brilliantly illuminated. Oh, grandmother, I wish
you would let me go with the Westervelt party to the theatre. What
excitement there will be there! What cheering and singing and fine
acting! and at uncle’s!--well, you know what uncle’s Evacuation dinners
are--ten or twelve old men who were in his company will be there; and
they will tell the same stories, and sing the same songs, and pay the
ladies the same compliments. I would like to go to the theatre.”
“To your uncle’s dinner party you will go to-night; and I think the
dress you are spangling is too light. You had better wear something
warmer.”
“Grandmother, I saw Sappha’s dress yesterday--it is a white gauze with
brilliant crimson roses scattered over it; and it is to be worn over a
rich, white satin slip. Do you want me to look a dowdy beside her?”
“Like a dowdy you could not look, not if you tried to, Annette. Of your
health I want you to take good care. Your mother had very weak lungs.”
“My lungs are strong enough, grandmother, it is my heart that is so
dangerously weak. It is always giving me sensations. Leonard Murray has
come back so handsome, I felt my heart as soon as I saw him.”
“Annette, in such a way as that a good girl should not talk, even to her
grandmother. I do not think it is respectable. I am too lenient with
you, and you are too free with me.”
“Grandmother, who is that? He is coming in here. I never saw the man
before. How handsome! how genteel! how simply noble he looks! I must
send Lucas to open the door.”
In a minute or two the stranger let the knocker fall lightly in a
rat-tat-tat, and the little negro boy who answered his summons put him
into the chill best parlour, and brought his card to madame. She read
the name on it with difficulty, and passing the card to Annette, drew
her brows together in an effort of remembrance.
“_Mr. Achille St. Ange._”
“St. Ange! St. Ange! Ah, yes, I now recollect. Gertrude Bergen married
a French gentleman called St. Ange. Gertrude and I were schoolgirls
together. I was one of her bridesmaids. This young man must be her
grandson. It seems incredible--impossible----”
“But in the meantime, grandmother, this young man is waiting in the cold
parlour.”
“I had forgotten. Let Lucas bring him here. Do you hear, Lucas?”
“Yes, madame.”
In a few moments Mr. St. Ange entered, with the air and manner of a
prince; bowing first to madame, and then, with a shade less deference,
to Annette. His slight, agile figure had the erect carriage of one born
to command; and his general appearance and aspect was suggestively
haughty, and yet when people became familiar with him, they saw only a
careless tolerance of all opinions, and a certain compatibility of
temper, which easily passed for good nature. His hair was intensely
black and soft, and lay in straight locks on his white brow; his eyes,
equally dark, were full of a sombre fire; his skin had the pallor of the
hot land from which he came.
Madame rose to welcome him and remained standing until he was seated,
then she smilingly resumed her chair, and said:
“Indeed, Mr. St. Agne, for a moment I had forgotten. Backward for more
than half a century I had to think--then I remembered your
grandmother--Gertrude Bergen. Am I right?”
“Madame is correct,” he answered; “my grandmother died ten years ago. My
mother is also no longer with the son, who needs her so much. I have
come to New York, and I have ventured to present a claim on your
kindness three generations old.”
His handsome face, his direct manner, the utter absence of anything
subtle in his air or appearance, perhaps even the grave richness of his
perfectly suitable attire prepossessed both women instantly in his
favour. Madame took out wine and cake with her own hands; Annette was
the cup-bearer, and he accepted the service with a grace far more
flattering than any challenge or deprecation of it could have been. And
as Annette handed him the glass, he incidentally--quite incidentally,
indeed--lifted his eyes to hers, and the glance seemed to rivet her to
the spot, to include not only her vision, but her very soul.
Mr. Achille St. Ange wanted a friend, that was all; and madame promised