The Belle of Bowling Green
For at least a quarter of an hour he tormented himself with the pictures
his imagination drew of what was passing behind that illuminated screen.
Then he went gloomily to his room and sat down with jealousy, and began
to count up his suspicions. A miserable companion is jealousy! And a
miserable tale of wrongs she gave him to reckon up. But at least he
reached one truth in that unhappy occupation--it was, that the
engagement between Sappha and himself ought to be immediately made
public. All their little misunderstandings, all his humiliations, had
come through their relationship being kept secret. He felt that he was
missing much of the pleasure of his wooing; certainly he was deprived of
the _éclat_ that it ought to have brought him. It was all wrong! All
wrong! And it must be put right at once. He promised himself he would
see to that necessity the first thing he did in the morning.
With this promise his insurgent heart suffered him to sleep a little,
yet sleep did him no good. He awoke with the same consuming fever of
resentment. He could not eat, nor yet drink; he had no use for anything
but thought: jealous thought, with that eternal hurry of the soul that
will not suffer rest--thoughts of love and sorrow, starting in every
direction from his unhappy heart, to find out some hope, and meeting
only suspicion, anger, and despair. It was his first experience of that
egotistical malady,
“whose torment, no men sure
But lovers and the damned endure.”
And he was astonished and dismayed at his suffering.
But few men suffer patiently; they are usually quick for their own
relief, and accordingly very early the following morning Leonard made an
excuse for calling on Sappha. Mrs. Bloommaert had gone, however, to
Nassau Street, and he did not need to urge the excuse prepared. He
launched at once into his wrongs and his sufferings; and indeed the
latter had left some intelligible traces. Sappha was moved by his pale
face and troubled eyes to unusual sympathy; but this did not suffice. He
felt that the only way to prevent a recurrence of the night’s suffering
was to insist upon a public acknowledgment of his rights as her accepted
lover, and he told Sappha this in no equivocal words.
She was distressed by his passion and evident distraction, but she would
not listen for a moment to his proposal to explain their position to her
father that night. And his eager entreaties finally roused in her
something like anger. “You are too selfish, Leonard,” she said, “and
please do not make your love for me the excuse for your selfishness. You
must be happy, no matter who is unhappy. Could you have picked out in
the whole year a time more unpropitious, more inopportune, than this
very week? Every person who has any patriotic feeling gives up all their
interest to our country for the next few days. Christmas and New Year’s
holidays have claims we cannot forget. It is my father’s holiday, his
great holiday, when he throws all business cares from his mind. My
mother has all manner of little domesticities and household hopes and
fears and duties to attend to. Have at least a little patience! Wait
until the New Year’s feast is over.”
“And give St. Ange another ten days full of delightful opportunities.”
“St. Ange! What do you mean, Leonard? Surely you are not jealous of St.
Ange. He has given you no cause whatever.”
“At first he behaved with all the honour imaginable; but lately I have
seen a change. He is no longer influenced by a belief in our engagement.
Naturally he thinks, if it had existed, you or I would have shown some
signs of so close a relationship. I have been held back on every hand,
and you have not been as seclusive and exclusive as you might have
been.”
“Oh, Leonard! How can you?”
“You have been very kind and familiar with St. Ange. He comes here quite
as much as I do. He goes out with your grandmother and mother, and often
your father is seen walking on the Battery with him. He never walks with
me. I do not like it. It is too much suffering! I cannot endure it.”
“I heard mother come in. I will go and speak to her, Leonard.”
“Do. She must see how reasonable I am.”
But the moment Sappha entered her mother’s room she was met by a rebuff.
Mrs. Bloommaert just looked in her face, and understood; and before she
had spoken half a dozen words she said with an air of resolve and
annoyance. “Now, Sappha, I will hear nothing about Leonard. He has been
quite unreasonable lately, and he was in a bad temper last night. Oh,
yes, he was! I know bad temper when I see it.”
“But, mother, this is important. He is really determined.”
“Do not tell me what he is determined on, for I shall certainly repeat
all you say to your father.”
“He wants, dear mother, he wants----”
“Just what he cannot have; what he has no right to have--yet. He
promised you to wait. I know he did. Do not tell me anything, Sappha,
because I shall feel it my duty to tell your father all you say--just at
this time too! It is too bad! It is exceedingly selfish and
inconsiderate; and I am astonished at Leonard Murray.”
“I do not think you ought to call Leonard ‘selfish and inconsiderate.’
He is very unhappy.”
“When all the city is happy and rejoicing! Can he not put aside his own
happiness for a while and rejoice with every one else? We are going to
keep Christmas for the Christ’s sake; we are going to honour the brave
men who have done our country such honour; we are going, all of us, to
think of our country and forget ourselves; and Leonard must take this
very time to urge some bit of pleasure that will be his, and his only,
that no one else must share----”
“You forget me, mother.”
“No. I am sure you are no party to anything that is so selfishly
personal. I think you would put the general good, and the general
happiness, before your own satisfaction.”
Then Sappha answered, “I hope you judge me rightly, mother; and I will
be very firm with Leonard. Yet he seems so miserable.”
“He is nursing some silly idea that in some way or other he is being
wronged. This notion blots all other ideas out of recognition; he is, as
I said before, suffering from selfishness; and selfishness is the
worst-tempered of all vices.”
“At any rate, he is wretched. Come and speak to him, mother.”
“No, I will not. I have other things to do. Of course he is wretched! he
ought to be, for bad temper, fortunately, bites at both ends. My advice
to you is, be a little cross yourself. Dear me! How tiresome men in love
are!”
To this last exclamation Sappha closed the door. She walked slowly
downstairs, she lingered, she seemed unable to come to any decision.
But in the midst of her uncertainty she listened to her heart, and what
her heart said to her was this: “It can never be wrong to be kind.” So
strengthened, and even counselled, by this suggestion, she went back to
her lover. He was walking about the room in a fever of self-torment, and
as the door opened he turned inquiringly. And it was the loveliest of
Sapphas he saw. She met him in all her charms; her eyes had a sunny
radiance, her mouth was all smiles, she looked as if there was not a
care in the wide world--a healing, lovesome woman, wonderfully sweet and
comforting.
“Dearest one,” she said softly, “sit here beside me. Let me have your
hand, Leonard, and listen to me. My mother says this is the very worst
time in all the year to speak to my father. He is so full of public
affairs, and you know, just now, they ought to come before any private
ones. Ought they not, dear?”
“Yes, of course, but----”
“Well, there can be no ‘but’ for a few days. Christmas is Christ’s
feast--we cannot presume to put ourselves before Christmas; and then
come all the honours, and feasts, and public rejoicings for our dear
country. You would not put yourself, nor even Sappha, before America,
her honour and freedom? And so I think, with mother, we must wait until
after the New Year before we say a word about ourselves. Dear, a few
months, a few weeks ago, you were so happy with my assurance only. Is it
less sweet now than then?”
And as she spoke more and more tenderly, aiding her words with loving
glances and the light pressure of her little hand, softer thoughts
flowed in, and the enchanter, love, usurped the place of every evil
passion. Leonard finally promised to be happy, and to let others be
happy; and he kissed this agreement on her lips. Alas!
“Man, only, clogs with care his happiness,
And while he should enjoy his part of bliss,
With thoughts of what might be, destroys what is.”
DRYDEN.
And when Sappha had watched and smiled him out of sight she turned in
with a sigh and a sudden depression of spirit. She had won Leonard to
her wish and way, but anger is always self-immolation, and for a time at
least Leonard had fallen in her esteem, for she was compelled to
disapprove of much that he had said; and the more we judge, the less we
love.
The whole affair seemed trifling to Mrs. Bloommaert; it was an annoyance
in the midst of events of far more importance, and had to be got out of
the way--that was all. But to Sappha it was different. She had forgiven
Leonard, but unhappy is the lover whom a woman forgives; and Sappha was
herself quite conscious that some virtue had gone out of her life. It
was not a little event to Sappha, for there are no little events with
the heart.
Fortunately Annette and St. Ange came in, and Sappha was compelled to
meet them on the level of their joyous temper. They had finished
decorating madame’s house, and their arms were full of box and feathery
hemlock and the blooms of many-coloured everlasting flowers and great
bunches of the vermilion berries of the darling pyracantha shrub. They
were tingling with the Christmas joy, and their ringing laughter, their
jokes and snatches of song, their quips and mock reproofs of their own
mirth, filled the house with the electric atmosphere of Merry Christmas.
Negroes were chattering among them, raising ladders, and running
messages, and the tapping of the little hammers, and the cries of
admiration as the room grew to a fairy bower, was far better than the
music of many instruments--it was the music of the heart.
“We ought to have had holly,” said St. Ange. “There is always holly in
Christmas decorations.”
“The pyracantha berries are just as pretty,” answered Mrs. Bloommaert,
“and the pyracantha is a rapid grower, and can be cut with
impunity--even with profit to the bush; but to cut holly! that is rather
a cruel business. It is almost as bad as flinging the Christmas tree
into the streets when it has done its whole duty.”
“But, aunt Carlita, what else can be done? It is too big to keep,
and----”
“I will tell you. In Germany, the home of the Christmas tree, they give
it house room until Shrove Tuesday, then it is formally burned.”
“Well,” said Sapphira, “we are not going to have a Christmas tree this
year; my father likes far better the _Yule Klap_.”
“What an outlandish name!” exclaimed St. Ange.
“Truly so, but then, such a delightful custom!” replied Annette.
“To-morrow night you will have to do your part in the Yule Klap; I hope
you are prepared.”
“But then, I know not.”
“My aunt will tell you all about it.” And Mrs. Bloommaert said: “Come
now, it is easy enough. The judge will open the Christmas room, and then
every one will throw their gifts into the room, crying ‘_Yule Klap_’ in
a disguised voice. The gifts may be rich or poor, but they must be
wrapped in a great number of coverings, and each cover be addressed to a
different person, but the person whose name is on the last cover gets
the gift. The gifts are to be strictly anonymous. So then no thanks are
to be given, and there can be no envious feelings awakened.”