The Belle of Bowling Green

“No. She turned all her attention to her money affairs. One of her great troubles had been Achille’s refusal to interfere in the management of her fortune; or even to permit her to make any change in its disposition, however profitable such change would be. ‘Your most sensible grandfather De Vries invested your money, and neither you nor I can improve upon his financial foresight,’ was the usual answer. But times had changed, and Annette knew well that her investments needed change of the most radical kind. She made them without a day’s delay. She called to her assistance the son of the man who had been her grandfather’s lawyer, and with his advice speedily nearly doubled her income. All that Achille had left her was closely secured in real estate, and she found in this business such pleasant satisfaction, that she regained much of her beauty and old-time spirit.” “She had thrown off the incubus, mother.” “Yes, and regained her self-appreciation. Her lawyer praised her financial insight, her friends praised her appearance, she took the reins of household management again, and held them with such strict method and discipline that her servants, from being the most idle and insolent in the city, became the most respectful and obedient.” “Did she ever talk of her husband?” “She never spoke of him until the year which Mr. St. Ange had named as the period of his absence was more than over. No word of any kind had come to her, and she said to my father, that she expected none. Achille had told her he would be too busy to write letters, and that she must accept ‘no news’ to be ‘good news.’ But he had given her the address in Paris where she might write to him, if there occurred anything worth writing about. My father advised her to write and inquire as to the health and welfare of Mr. St. Ange, and the date of his probable return. Annette did so, and after the lapse of four months received a short note from the lawyer she had addressed, saying: ‘The ship in which Monsieur St. Ange sailed from New York was lost in the Bay of Biscay, and all on board perished. It is possible, but not likely, that Monsieur St. Ange was picked up by some vessel, whose course would take her round the Cape to India or China, and thus prevent all intelligence reaching us for a year or two. Madame is advised to consider this probability, but not to place much hope upon it.’” Carlita laughed scornfully, and her mother continued: “Annette took the information with a blank calmness; no one could tell what her feelings were. She continued her busy life for three more years, and then one day a fashionable gentleman, called Van Tienhoven, visited her. In the most guarded and respectful manner he told her that he had just returned from France; that while there he had, through the influence of powerful friends, visited the Court of Versailles several times, and that on two occasions he had seen there, in close attendance upon the King, Mr. St. Ange, or, he added, if not Mr. St. Ange, the most perfect duplicate of that gentleman that can be imagined. Annette preserved her composure until his confidence was closed, then gave it an unqualified denial. She told Van Tienhoven that St. Ange’s lawyer had assured her of the death of her husband; and begged him not to give publicity to the suspicion that he still lived. She showed him how painful it must be to her, how unfortunate for her daughters, and she emphatically declared her own belief in Mr. St. Ange’s death. He gave her his word of honour to observe strict silence on the subject; and the Van Tienhovens are all gentlemen. I have no doubt the promise of secrecy was kept. “But Annette became restless and unhappy, and both her grandmother and my father advised her to go to Paris. She went, taking with her Jonaca, the eldest of her daughters, who had always been the favourite of St. Ange. In less than four months she was in New York again. She came back without Jonaca, and dressed in the most pronounced widow’s costume. She said unequivocally that her husband was dead, and that she had left Jonaca at a fine Parisian school; her father’s friends having strongly urged her to do so, promising to care well for the girl. No one had any right to doubt Annette’s statement, but mother told me that from the first there was a doubt. It was undefined and unspoken, but it permeated society; and Annette soon felt it. One day after some particularly disagreeable incident, she came to my mother and told her what had occurred; and mother said, ‘Dear, what does it matter? _You_ know that Achille is dead, do you not?’ And she answered in a sullen, angry way, ‘Sapphira, he is as dead to me as if he lay at the bottom of the Bay of Biscay. There is no truer widow in all America than Annette St. Ange. And then she pulled the widow’s veil from her bonnet, and the widow’s cap from her head, and flung them with passionate scorn far from her. What confidence followed this act mother never fully told me; but I gathered from what she said that she had been compelled to give up Jonaca, who had been placed in a convent for proper education, and that the interview with her husband had been extremely painful. But he kissed her hand at the close of the negotiations, and he sent servants in magnificent livery to attend to her luggage and passports and all the other formalities of travel; and they waited on her as if she was a princess, until they saw her safely on board the American-bound vessel. “Gradually I learned more of this domestic tragedy. Judge Bloommaert told my father and mother that Annette was in receipt of a large income from France. Later, I heard that the notes authenticating this income were signed by the Duc de Massareene. A few years later Jonaca St. Ange was introduced to French society of the highest rank, and in about half a year we heard of her marriage to the Marquis de Lauvine. Annette was proud of the alliance, and announced it in all the New York newspapers.” “Now, mother, I begin to see how it is all the Van Sants go to Paris ‘for their luck,’ as they say.” “You see only in part. Annette never spoke plainly to any one, unless it was to my mother and her lawyer. Her second daughter, Clara, went to Paris in her fifteenth year, remained in the convent two years, and was then introduced to society by her sister, the Marquise de Lauvine. But Clara refused all French alliances; she had a child love for George Van Sant, and she came home and married him. The youngest daughter, Annette, also went to Paris, and returned home to marry Fayette Varian. Their children have all friends in Paris, and some Americans wonder at the way they succeed socially. To me it is no wonder. The de Massareenes and De Lauvines are sensible of their right, and rather proud of their rich American kindred.” “I understand now, mother, why the Van Sants and Varians still crown Annette St. Ange as the most remarkable of women.” “She was a remarkable woman. My father did not hesitate to say to my mother and self, that she had done wisely in accepting money in place of a very doubtful recognition. You see the marriage laws were uncertain to her, and she knew well if her husband was a Roman Catholic that circumstance alone might invalidate her own marriage.” “But was he a Roman Catholic?” “Yes. Always had been, I suspect.” “Then I think he was very dishonourable, and----” “We will not discuss that question. It involves too many of our own kindred. Madame Jonaca, her grandmother, her uncle, Judge Bloommaert, and her Grandfather de Vries ought perhaps not to have taken the young man’s ‘conformity’ for reality. That is past. The atonement made was very real and lasting. Immediately on her return from Paris Annette bought a beautiful home, she had the finest horses and carriages in New York, and she brought from far and near the very best teachers for her daughters. But in spite of this apparent extravagance she kept a strict account of every expense, and made every dollar earn its fullest percentage. Besides which, she speculated wisely, and was fortunate in every money transaction she touched. The Van Sants owe to her prudence all the luxury they enjoy to-day. They do well to praise her. I was thinking of her bride picture, and of the sad, sombrely clothed woman I remembered, when you came into the room. And I had just come to the conclusion that her husband’s withdrawal was a fortunate thing for Annette and her daughters.” “She gave up all for her children. She was a good woman.” “I do not believe she would have given up the crossing of a ‘t’ if it had not been for her children. She had spirit enough to have fought every court in France,--when she was from under her husband’s influence,--but motherhood was Annette’s passion, and if the Van Sants and Varians knew Annette St. Ange’s true story they would give hearty thanks and praise to the self-effacing woman who chose for them wealth and honour in America rather than a foreign nobility, with perhaps the bar sinister across it.” “I am going to take a good look at Annette St. Ange’s picture to-morrow, mother. I have been rather worried lately at our Gerard’s attentions to Clara Van Sant, but if she has any share in her grandmother’s reticent, self-respecting, prudent, far-seeing nature, Gerard has my blessing. He can marry Clara to-morrow. What have you done with that square of glass, mother?” “It is in my desk.” “I would have it fitted into one of the windows in your private sitting-room.” “Thank you for the suggestion, Carlita.” “I cannot help wondering at fate, or whatever you call the power that orders our lives. Here were two women brought up in the same kind of loving, orderly homes, and surrounded by just the same influences, and the marriage of one is a living tragedy, and the marriage of the other is a song of love. How did the difference come to pass?” “There were personal reasons in both cases to account for the difference--if there was all the dissimilarity you suppose.” “Was there not?” “No; my mother’s song of love had discords, and often fell into the minor key. No one can tell in what particular way a man will try the heart of the woman that loves him. My dear father had some failings that might have made sorrow enough, but mother knew how to accept the discipline; and in some cases we are reaping the benefit this day, both of my father’s foibles and my mother’s wise acceptance of them.” “I have always believed Grandfather Murray to have been a nearly faultless man.” “Under some circumstances his failings would have been virtues; but when a man marries he assumes duties which are paramount, and which demand a sacrifice of things in themselves innocent and even commendable. He had a love for travel, adventure, and even fighting, that at times became a hunger that must be satisfied; and these periods were often of long duration, and caused my mother infinite alarm and anxiety. I will only give you two instances, and these two, because they are prominent factors in our present life.” “One of them is, of course, Castle Murray in Scotland?” “Yes. You know the story of its loss and redemption. But that was but the beginning. The old place seemed to draw father like a magnet, and he doubtless spent a great deal of money on its improvement; for he built additional rooms and inaugurated industries which I believe are still in progress.” “He was making the land valuable, mother. Was not that wise?” “It did not look like wisdom to my anxious mother, and when my eldest brother James died it looked still less prudent. But my brother Alexander was then ‘Murray of Castle Murray,’ and he was as fanatic as his father and elder brother had been. His son David was equally proud