The Belle of Bowling Green

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,