Part 15

“I never should have thought Achille would worry about anything. He is always so deliberate, and so calm.”

“Oh, but a man in love is a different creature, and I can tell you that Achille is distractingly in love. I am not quite ignorant about the queer ways of men in a fever of infatuation. Why, he scarcely ever goes to see the pastry cook now.”

“Oh, but De Singeron was a gallant officer of King Louis! He is in exile and misfortune, that is all. The pastry business is but an emergency—and he manages it splendidly—”

“Certainly. I have always liked his good things. And he is going to make us the most wonderful wedding cake. However, when Achille and I are married Achille will have to give up many things, and Monsieur Auguste Louis de Singeron will be one of them. At present I have too many things to worry about to interfere.”

“You have nearly half a year in which to do your worrying. Why not take things more easily?”

“Oh, the fun is in the fuss! Did you hear that General Moreau is going back to Europe to join the allies? The emperor of Russia has sent for him, and now he will have the chance to pay Napoleon back for his nine years’ exile. But I shall never pass 119 Pearl Street without a sigh. No one ever gave such princely entertainments as the Moreaus. The general is to have a great appointment, but what he likes best is the chance of fighting the world’s big tyrant. Achille is going to see him embark—and many others. But this is not my affair. There is my wedding gown, for instance.”

“Have you decided on it?”

“It must be white—everything about me must be white. Achille says so. I think grandmother will send to Boston for the silk or satin; there is none here of a quality fit for the most important gown a woman can ever wear. You would think it was grandmother’s wedding, she is so interested in every little thing about it.”

Indeed, Annette did not much overstate madame’s interest in her granddaughter’s marriage preparations. She lifted the additional work, and even the additional expense, with a light-hearted alacrity that was wonderful. And in many ways her cheerfulness brought her a rich and ready reward. She had been almost a recluse for some years, she was now seen constantly on the streets and in the stores, and not infrequently in this way she became a delighted spectator of public parades and military drills and movements. Achille usually accompanied her, and his respectful attentions were a source of wonder and speculation to those who forgot to consider that Frenchmen are specially trained to give honour, and even reverence, to old age. So it was not remarkable that madame put on a kind of second youth; how could she be in constant, affectionate accord with four loving young hearts and not do so?

For the next half-year, then, Annette was the centre of interest in her own little world. The judge and Mrs. Bloommaert, Sappha, and Leonard gladly entered into the spirit of this generous service for, and sympathy with, the exultant little bride. And at this period of her life, even her foibles and selfishness were pleasantly excused. It was her last draught of the careless joy of girlhood; no one wished to spill, or spoil, one drop of it.

Leonard and Sappha were much of their time at the Bloommaert House in Nassau Street; although Leonard, in the City Commissioner’s office, was making some pretence of mapping out streets and lots of ground in the wilderness round Harlem Flat. But this business hardly interfered with his attentions to Sappha and Annette; nor yet with the military spirit which took him very regularly to the guard-room of some of the volunteer companies. He was also a recognised dependence when the city wished to entertain some hero whom it delighted to honour; for then both his purse and his natural genius for method and arrangement made him an invaluable surety for success.

During this half-year there were not many warlike events to influence New York, and her citizens had become quite used to the guns at the different forts signalling “the British fleet off Sandy Hook.” Many false alarms also contributed to this sense of security. They were well aware, too, that the already numerous forts were being steadily increased and strengthened, and in April the Battery parade was fortified. This park was then a strip of greensward about three hundred feet wide, between State Street and the water’s edge. It had no sea wall, only a low wooden fence on the edge of a bluff two or three feet high; then loose sand and pebbles to the water’s edge. There was a dock at the foot of Whitehall Street, and at Marketfield Street the water came nearly to the middle of the block between Washington and Greenwich streets. About the centre of the southeastern part of this park there was a public garden and a charming little hall, where coffee, cakes, ice cream, and other delicacies were served; and on summer evenings some of the military bands made excellent music there for the visitors.

Of course, the erection of a breastwork around this water line of the park was an interesting event to all the dwellers on the Bowling Green, and Sappha and Leonard, during the lovely days of April and May, took their walks about the Battery fortifications, and thus thrilled their love through and through with the passion of patriotism and the glow and excitement of its warlike preparations.

It was while these Battery defences were being constructed that the city gave one of its usual great entertainments to Captain Lawrence, who in the Hornet had captured the British brig-of-war Peacock. Two circumstances made this dinner one that brought the war very close to the people of New York—the first was the fact that Lawrence was a citizen of New York; the second was the marching of the one hundred and six survivors of the sunk ship Peacock through all the principal streets of the city to their prison in Fort Gansevoort, thus affording the populace a very visible proof of victory. It was, however, noticeable that few of American parentage offered any insult to the depressed-looking sailors, while many men of the first consideration raised their hats as the unhappy line passed. Leonard and Achille were among this number. “Honour to the vanquished!” said Achille with emotion; and Leonard, remembering who had taught them that sentiment, repeated it. And this courtesy was the more emphatic, because at that very time a large number of British war vessels had entered the Chesapeake and Delaware bays.

But did war ever stop marriage? On the contrary, it seems to give a strange vitality and hurry to love-making; and in the midst of all its alarms Annette’s wedding preparations went blithely on to their determined crisis. On the seventh of June Annette, being of age, became mistress of her estate, and on the seventeenth of the same month she married Achille St. Ange.

It was an exquisite summer day, and the old house in Nassau Street had never looked more picturesquely homelike. Every rose tree was in bloom, and doors and windows were all open to admit the scented air. For the company far exceeded the capacity of the parlours; it filled the hall, the stairway, and the piazzas, and even in the garden happy young people were wandering among the syringa bushes and the red and white roses. And presently there was a little wistful, eager stir, and Annette, followed by her grandmother and Sappha, came softly down the stairway. Then the girls sitting there rose and stood on each side of the descent, and Achille hastened to meet the snow-white figure, and ere she touched the floor took her hands in his own. And never had Annette looked so fair and so lovely; from the rose in her hair to the satin sandals on her feet she was in lustrous white. The faint colour of her cheeks, the deeper red of her mouth, and the heavenly blue of her eyes were but the tender tints that gave life to the bright, slow-moving, bride-like beauty.

Many a time Annette had consciously assumed a pensive, thoughtful expression, for Achille admired her most in such moods; but there was no necessity for the pretence this day. Those who had any penetrative observation might see beyond the light of her sweet smiles and glances the shadowed eyes that both remember and foresee. She was not a girl at all inclined to reflection, but feeling and intuition go where reason cannot enter, and Annette felt that this very day was the meridian day of her life. Having gained this, the height of her hope and desire, she wondered—even against her will—“if she must henceforward tread the downward slope until the evening shades of life found her?” Was this day to give a future to her past and change girlhood’s simple hopes into the richer joys of wifehood? Or would this new self that had just taken possession of her bring kisses wet with tears, waste remembrance of vanished hours, and forlorn sighs for the days eventual? Not these words, but the sentiment of them, insinuated itself into the bride’s consciousness. It was uncalled, and unwelcome; and Annette, frowning at the intrusion, dismissed it. She had always found “change” meant something better, and that there was ever a living joy, ready to take the place of a dead one, even as—

“The last cowslip in the fields we see On the same day with the first corn poppy.”

Fortunately, after any great domestic vicissitude, there is generally a suspension of everything unusual. The family in which it has occurred refuse to be drawn into further changes. They instinctively feel that marriage, as well as death, makes life barren, and they say in many different ways, “It is enough. Leave things as they are; at least, for a little while.”

This was certainly the feeling in the Bloommaert family, and it was made more sensible by the unsatisfactory condition of the country. The campaign on the northern frontier had been, all the year, one military disaster, and the president designated the ninth of September as “a day of humiliation, fasting, and prayer, and for an invocation for divine help.” On the eighth of September the British men-of-war captured thirty coasters within twelve miles of New York city, and the citizens who knelt in the pews of Trinity the next day not only felt the need of divine help, but were also wonderfully strengthened and comforted by the appropriate selection designated in the Prayer Book for the ninth day of the month. These were so remarkably suitable and encouraging that several of the newspapers called attention to the circumstance.

The very day after this public entreaty for help Commodore Perry in his flagship Lawrence won his victory on Lake Erie, and on the twenty-second of the month the news reached New York City, and turned fear and sadness into hope and triumph. General Harrison’s victory over Tecumseh followed, and these two successes had a special claim on the thankfulness of New York City and State; for “they gave security and repose to two hundred thousand families, who a week before then, could not fall asleep any night, with the certainty of escaping fire or the tomahawk until morning.”

Never since the white man first trod Manhattan Island had food and clothing been so difficult to obtain; and yet the great mass of the people of New York City did not seem to be at all anxious about national affairs. They had become accustomed to the war, and domestic life went very well then, to its triumphs and excitements of many kinds. For, if the prices of all the necessities and conveniences of life were high, there were plenty of treasury notes to pay for them; and very frequently valuable cargoes were brought, or sent, into port as prizes of some of the American privateers that were then swarming on the ocean.

Harrison’s victory and the approach of winter gave New York a feeling of present security, and the city was unusually gay. General Moreau’s princely entertainments were hardly missed, for the St. Anges’ dinners and balls were even more frequent, and more splendid; and Annette presided over these functions with a marvellous grace and tact. She seemed, at this time, to have realised her utmost ambition, and to be happy and satisfied in the actuality. Even the judge was more hospitable than he had ever before been; and madame was in a perpetual flutter between the dinners of her son Gerardus and the dances of her granddaughter, Annette.

So to the thrill of warlike drums and trumpets and the witching music of the dance fiddle Sappha’s wooing went happily forward. There was constant movement between the Bowling Green, Nassau Street, and the Semple house; and it was just as well Leonard had not opened any law book, for in these days all his reading and research was in the light and love of Sappha’s eyes. Certainly in the City Commissioner’s office his work was trifling and inconstant, for the greater part of his time was spent in the civil services necessary for the comfort of the many militia companies then in the city. In this respect he held a kind of non-official over-sight; for he was always ready to personally supply, at once, comforts which otherwise would have been delayed. Consequently he was welcome in every guard-room, and no young man in New York was more popular or more respected.

Judge Bloommaert was well aware of this fact, and yet there were times when the old dislike would assert itself; and, strange as it may seem, this feeling was usually caused by Leonard’s overflowing vitality, his almost boisterous good humour, and his confident conversation.

“The fellow never knows when he has ceased to be interesting,” he said one night fretfully, “and you and Sappha hang upon his words as if they were very wisdom. I am astonished at you, Carlita.”

“And I at you, Gerardus. Why cannot you two talk an hour together without getting on each others’ prejudices?”

“Leonard is always so cock-sure he is right.”

“Convince him he is wrong.”

“You cannot handle his arguments any more than you can handle soap bubbles; both are so empty.”

“I think he is very interesting. He knows all that is going on, and he tells us all he knows.”

“To be sure! He is a walking newspaper, and the leading article is always Leonard Murray. Whatever does Sapphira Bloommaert see in him? I am sure, also, that he keeps up his acquaintance with Mr. Burr. Yet he knows my opinion about that man.”

“Well, you see, Gerardus, though you may interfere somewhat in Leonard Murray’s love affairs, you cannot dictate to him concerning his friends. Suppose he should tell you that he did not approve of your friendship with Mr. Morris?”

“The impertinence is not supposable, Carlita. What are you thinking of? Such remarks are enough to make any man lose his temper.”

“Very likely, but if you lose your present temper, Gerardus, do not look for it; it is not worth finding. Do you really wish to separate Sappha and Leonard, after all that has been said and granted?”

“I do not say that. Cannot a man grumble a little to his wife? And must she take every fretful word at its full value? People complain of bonds they would never break. As the Dutch proverb has it, ‘The tooth often bites the tongue, but yet they keep together.’”

“Dear husband, all will come right in the long run. Leonard is in a very hard position. He desires to please so much that he exceeds, and so offends. He loves Sappha with all his heart; that should excuse many faults.”

“I do not see it in that way. It is not a favour to love Sapphira, nor yet a hard thing to do. What are you talking about?”

“I am saying that we both need sleep. We are tired out now. In the morning things will look so different.”

Such little frets, however, hardly ruffled the full stream of the life of that day. There were plenty of real worries for those who wished to complain; and for those inclined to take the fervour and faith, the courage and self-denial of the time, there were plenty of occasions for happiness and hope. And so the winter grew to spring, and the spring waxed to summer, and June brought roses and the most astonishing news.

It came to the Bloommaert’s one morning as they were sitting at the breakfast table. The meal was over, but they lingered together discussing a dinner party which Annette was to give that day, and their order of going to it. It was a special dinner, to which only relatives of the family were invited, and was given in honour of Annette’s little daughter, then six weeks old. Madame was present, and took an eager interest in the affair, for the child had been called by her name; and she had with her the deed of a house in Cedar Street, which she was going to put into the little Jonaca’s hand.

Leonard had promised to call for Sappha at twelve o’clock, but the judge was advising them to go early, when the parlour door was thrown open with some impetuosity, and Leonard stood looking at the group with a face full of conflicting emotions. In a moment every one had divined that he had important news, and the judge rose to his feet and asked impatiently:

“What is it, Leonard?”

“Two hundred thousand French troops are prisoners of war. Paris is in possession of the allies. Napoleon has been exiled. The Bourbons are again on the throne of France.”

“My God! Is all this true, Leonard?”

“There is not a doubt of it.”

“Then I must go and see Gouverneur Morris at once. Tell Annette I will be on time for dinner.” And he hurried away with these words, and left Leonard to discuss the news and the dinner with the three excited women.

There was now no unnecessary delay, for the streets were already in a state of commotion, the news having spread like wildfire. Nor could they escape the influence of the fervid atmosphere through which they passed; the glowing sunshine was not more ardent than the passionate rejoicing and the passionate hatred that challenged each other at every step of their progress. Even the shadowy stillness of the Semple gardens and the large, cool rooms of the house were full of the same restless antagonising spirit. Annette’s cousins, the Verplancks and the Van Burens, and her aunt, Joanna de Vries, speedily followed them, but it was only the women of the families that entered the house; the men hastened back to Broadway and the Battery to hear and to discuss the news. And it was hard for Annette to keep a smiling face over her angry heart. Who were the Bourbons that they should interfere with her affairs? Indeed, she complained to her grandmother bitterly of Achille’s strange conduct. He had left her in the midst of their breakfast, left her as soon as he heard the news, without one thought as to the family duties devolving on him that day. And madame had not been too sympathetic. “You have been crying, Annette,” she said. “I am afraid you have a discontented temper. For the dinner, your husband will return.”

“I know not, grandmother. When that pastry cook flung open our parlour door and cried out ‘Achille! Achille! Napoleon is in exile! The Bourbons are on the throne of France again!’ Achille flung himself into the man’s arms, and they kissed each other. Grandmother, they kissed each other, and then went off together as if they were out of their senses.”

“But to you also, Achille spoke? Of the dinner he spoke; I know it.”

“He said he would return in time for dinner; but he will forget—he was beside himself—”

“Come, come, let not Joanna de Vries see that you are vexed at any thing. Too much she will have to say. Here comes Madame Rutgers! Shall we go to them?”

Then Annette went to welcome her guests, and, with longer or shorter delays, the company gathered. Every one had something strange to add to the general excitement, but it was only the women that chattered and quarrelled until near two o’clock. Then the judge and Leonard came in together, and were soon followed by the young Verplanks, Commissioner Van Buren and his two sons, and Cornelius Bogart, Annette’s favourite cousin.

But Achille at two o’clock had not arrived, and the dinner was ready, and the company waiting—the men very impatiently, for at “high ’Change” they had taken their usual nooning of a piece of raw salt codfish and a glass of punch, and they knew that the ordinary at the Tontine Coffee House, in Wall Street, would have at three o’clock a dinner very much more to their mind, considering the news of the day and the disturbance and the agitation it had caused. Annette, under these conditions, had nothing to offer as attractive. The women, fair and otherwise, were the women of their own family connections; and relations must be taken as found; there is no choice, as in friends. Which of us has not relations that would never be on our list of friends?