Part 2

“Then, grandmother, you will build a fine house past Trinity Church—a good deal past it—perhaps half a mile, or even a mile, and we shall have a carriage of our own and be among the quality.”

“I shall never leave this house, Annette. But I tell you, my dear one—you shall go to Washington every season. If your uncle and aunt Bloommaert go there, that will be sufficient; if not, I have friends who will see to it. Sapphira grows wonderfully handsome.”

“And I, grandmother?”

“You have your own beauty. You need not to envy any one. Now I am tired and I will go to my room. I want to take some better counsel than my own.”

“May I not go to see Sapphira, grandmother? I want to see her very much.”

“You may not go to-day. Listen; the constant tramp of feet and the noise of men shouting and gathering grows louder. Stay in your home.”

“It is very tiresome! Men are always quarrelling about something. What is the use of governments if they can’t prevent war? Any one can settle a quarrel by fighting over it. I do not see what good fighting does. The drums parading round will give us headaches, and the men will go swaggering from one day to another after them. I am in a passion at President Madison—just too when summer is here, and we were going to the Springs, and I was sure to have had an enchanting time.”

“Thou little good-for-nothing! Hold thy foolish tongue! If our men are going to fight it is for thy liberty and thy honour and thy happiness. Sit still an hour and think of that.”

She shut the door when she had spoken these words, and then went, a little wearily, upstairs; but if any one had seen her half an hour afterwards sitting with closed eyes and clasped hands asleep in the large chair that stood by her bedside, they would have said, “She has been satisfied.” For though she looked much older when asleep, her face then showed nothing but that sacred peace and refinement which comes only through a constant idea of God’s care and presence.

Annette stood still until she heard her grandmother’s door close; then, after a moment or two of indecision, she took from under the sofa-cushion a book, and stood it up before her with a comical air of judgment.

“It is all your fault, you unlucky ‘Children of The Abbey,’” she said sternly. “If I had been able to get rid of you, I should have gone with grandmother to Uncle Gerard’s house this morning; and, considering the news, we should certainly have remained there all day. And as grandmother says, ‘if the pot boils, it always boils over on the Bowling Green.’ I ought to have been where I could see and hear all that was going on. I think Sapphira might have sent for me! People are so selfish, and affairs always work so contrary. If I try to be unselfish nothing good comes of it—to me; and if I am reasonably selfish then I am sure to suffer for it. Grandfather de Vries is right; whenever I go to see him, he always mumbles to me: ‘see now, love others well, but thyself most of all.’ Grandfather de Vries is a wise man—every one says so—and he tells me to love myself best of all. Well, I shall have no company this afternoon but these silly ‘Children of The Abbey.’ They are as distractingly absurd as they can be, but I want to know whether they get married or not.”

She sought this information with great apparent interest, yet ever as she turned the fascinating leaves, she let the book drop down a minute while she wondered “what was going on on the Bowling Green.” For she had that keen impression of “something missed” which frequently and mockingly informs a person in whom selfishness is ingrained, unconscious, hereditary.

And her premonition was more than true. Her uncle at that very hour was standing on the topmost step of the flight leading to his house door, and there was a crowd of young men before him—a crowd drunk with its own passionate enthusiasm—who would not be satisfied until he had spoken. His wife and his daughter stood at his right hand, and at his left his son Christopher held aloft the torn and stained colours that had floated above “Bloommaert’s Men” through the heroic days of the War for Independence. Shout after shout greeted his appearance, and when there was a moment’s pause, a beautiful youth stepped forward and called out:

“Speak to us, judge. It is your words we are waiting for.” His hat was in his hand, and his bare head, crowned with close, clustering curls, was lifted to the judge. For one moment his eyes sought out Sapphira, and she caught the glance, and it went to her heart like a ray of sunshine. Yet it was into her father’s face she smiled as she gently touched his arm. Then he spoke as if a burning coal had been laid on his lips, and the very air felt as if set on fire by his words:

“My neighbours, and my fellow citizens!” he cried, “I have hitherto been bitterly against this war with England; but now, I am for it. With all my heart and soul, with all my body, with every shilling of my estate I am for it. I have always been a true and consistent Federalist. But now, there are no Federalists! there are no Republicans! We are all Americans! Dutch and English and French and Scotch, all are to-day Americans! America is the mother of us all. She has nursed us at her breast. She has made us free from all ancient tyrannies. She has given us homes and wives and children, filled our granaries with the finest of the wheat, and set before us the commerce of the whole earth. Shall we not love her? Shall we not defend her when she is insulted and wronged and threatened?”

A roar of enthusiastic assent answered these questions.

“If we must fight we will strike no soft blows in battle. We will give our enemy and the whole world this lesson—that no foreign warships can safely come blustering and pillaging our coasts. New York is to be defended, and New Yorkers are the men to defend their native city. Will you do it?”

He was answered by a shout of affirmation.

“To the last gun?”

“Yes.”

“To the last man?”

“Yes! Yes! You will stand with us, Bloommaert?”

“Living or dead I will stand with you.” Then he took reverently in his hands the faded glorious rag that Christopher Bloommaert held.

“Look,” he said, in a voice as tender as a woman’s—“look at the flag that never waved over a coward, the flag to which we lifted our eyes when all was dark, and saw victory in its stars. It is a flag made for free men; will you ever let England—ever let any enemy—take it from you?”

“We will die for it!”

“No, you will live for it! You will carry it from victory to victory and fly it in the face of all the world—the flag of a free country—the flag of men that will have nothing else, and nothing less—than absolute liberty and absolute independence.” As he spoke these words he lifted the old banner to his lips, and then held it out to the people.

It was an act of allegiance that embraced every soul present, and was followed by a moment of silence that throbbed with emotion; then the young man who had spoken for the company looked expressively at his comrades, and they turned northward to the city, their hearts burning with a steady fervour of loyalty, and their faces full of that dauntless hope which of its own energy fulfils itself. Quiet they could not long be, and when they reached the upper end of the Bowling Green, they began to sing; softly at first, but gradually gathering into a rattling vocal melody, the fiery passion of loyalty that filled their hearts:

“Here’s to the Squire who goes to parade! Here’s to the citizen soldier! Here’s to the merchant who fights for his trade Whom danger increasing makes bolder. Here’s to the lawyer, who leaving his bar Hastens where honour doth lead, Sir, Changing his gown for the ensigns of war, The cause of his country to plead, Sir! Freedom appears, Every heart cheers, And calls for the help of the brave Volunteers.”

They sang the verse to the gay inspiring music of its old English song, and then gave lustily the cheers it called for. Their echo floated into the Bloommaert house, where the family were sitting down to their belated dinner; for this commonplace event was eagerly accepted as a relief. To eat and to drink, that would mean help and remission, and they had felt until feeling had become prostrating and oppressive.

Christopher made the first remark, and this was to quote the last line of the song, “Calls for the help of the brave Volunteers,” asking after a short pause, “Is it not so, father?”

“Yes, Christopher. I suppose you will sail soon?”

“As soon as my new ship is ready. Peter is hurrying it forward. I am impatient to be off.”

“Have you seen Peter to-day?” asked his mother.

“I saw him, but he was far too busy to talk. The hammers ring in his ship-yard from the first streak of dawn to the last glint of daylight. And now the demand for ships will be doubled.”

“We shall want soldiers as well as sailors, Christopher,” said the judge.

“That is true, father, and they will not be to beg nor to seek. This is a cause that knocks at every man’s door. Leonard Murray is only one of many rich young men who are raising companies at their own expense.”

“Then it was Leonard Murray with those men who were here an hour ago,” said Mrs. Bloommaert. “I felt sure of it; but how much he has changed.”

“In some ways, yes; in general he is just the same good fellow he has ever been. I had a few words with him early this morning, and he asked me to give his respectful remembrance to you and to Sapphira.”

“It is four or five years since I saw him; where has he been?”

“He was at Yale nearly two years; then he went with a party as far west as the Mississippi, and down the river to New Orleans. He was staying with the Edward Livingstons until the rumours of war became so positive that he could not doubt their truth. Then he sailed from New Orleans to Norfolk, and so on to Washington. He reached Washington the very day of the proclamation of war and came so rapidly with the news that Mayor Clinton received it some hours before the official notice.”

“And every hour is of the greatest importance now,” said the judge. “Indeed, I have hardly time for my afternoon pipe, for I promised Mr. Clinton to meet him at four o’clock.”

This information hurried the dinner a little, and Judge Bloommaert took his smoke very restlessly. After he had left the house, Christopher did not remain long. His ship’s progress absorbed his thoughts, and he was not a talkative man. His ardour, his national pride, and his hatred of oppression were quite as potent factors with Christopher Bloommaert as with any patriot in New York, but the force they induced was a silent and concentrated one. On land he seemed to be rather a heavy man, slow in his movements and short in his speech; but the passion of his nature was only biding its opportunity, and those who had ever seen Christopher Bloommaert in action on his own deck knew for all time afterwards what miracles physical courage set on fire by patriotism and by personal interest combined might accomplish.

As he was leaving the room he held the open door in his hand a minute, and said: “Mother, do you know that Aaron Burr is back? He put up his sign in Nassau Street yesterday; I saw it this morning.”

“Dear me, Chris! I hope he has come to help his country in her trouble—that would be only right.”

“Help his country! Aaron Burr help! The man is dead.”

“What do you mean, Chris? You said he was back, now you say he is dead.”

“His honour is slain, and all men have lost faith in him. The man is dead.”

He went away with these words, and Sapphira and her mother watched him out of sight. For some minutes they did not speak; then Mrs. Bloommaert asked: “Did you know Leonard Murray this morning, Sapphira?”

“Yes, mother. I knew him at once. I think that he passed the house twice yesterday. I was not quite sure then, but this morning I had not a moment’s doubt. I wish Annette had been here. She will be very much disappointed.”

“Annette would have spoiled everything. I am glad she was not here.”

“Oh, mother!”

“Yes, she would. I will tell you how. When your father was called out, and took his stand on the topmost step, with Christopher and the flag on one side of him and you and I on the other side, do you think Annette would have been satisfied to stand with us? To be only one of a group? That is not Annette’s idea of what is due to Annette.”

“But what could she have done to alter it?”

“She would have said in her pretty, apologetic way that it was ‘too bad to crowd us, and that any place was right for her,’ and, before an answer was possible, she would have slipped past Christopher and seated herself on the second step at his feet. With her long curls and her white frock, and the blue snood in her hair, and the flag above her, she would have made a picture sufficiently lovely to have attracted and distracted every man present. There would have been but a poor, divided enthusiasm; and yet, Annette would have been so naturally and so innocently conspicuous that both your father and Christopher would have been unconscious of her small, selfish diplomacy.”

“Annette is so pretty.”

“And so vain of her beauty.”

“That is true, but I fancy, mother, even the flowers are vain of their beauty. I have noticed often how the roses when in full bloom, sway and bend and put on languishing airs as if they knew they were sweet and lovely. And, to be sure, I have frequently when I have looked in a mirror been very glad I had a fair face and a good form.”

“It was a very indiscreet, I may say a very wrong thing to do.”

There was a short, penitential silence, and then Sapphira said:

“Though to-morrow is Sunday, may I go and see Annette early in the morning? I am sure both grandmother and Annette will like to know about father’s speech.”

“I can assure you that they know all about it already. Kouba was not here to wait on your father when he left the house—why? Because he had gone as fast as possible to his old mistress with the news. Your grandmother gave him to your father when we were married, but it is only with his left hand that Kouba has served us. Your grandmother is still first; he goes to her with all the news of our house; he always has done so, he always will do so. Nassau Street already knows all—and more—that happened on the Bowling Green to-day.”

Mrs. Bloommaert was quite correct in her opinion. Kouba had not even waited to eat his dinner, but had gone at once to “old mistress” with his own account of the event. And as madame was in her room asleep, Annette had been made the recipient of his views. She listened and she understood, without inquiry or dissent, where the information was truthful and where Kouba was embroidering the occurrence with his personal opinions. She accepted all apparently with equal faith, and then told the old man to “go to the kitchen and get his dinner and a bottle of ‘Sopus beer.”

“What an exciting event!” she exclaimed, “and Kouba is sure that Leonard Murray was the leader of the crowd. I believe it. It was Leonard I saw with the Clark boys half an hour ago. I dare say he is staying with them. I must go and tell grandmother.”

She found madame awake, and quickly gave her Kouba’s news. And it was really a little comfort to Annette to see her grandmother’s disappointment. “So sorry am I that I came away,” she said, “for a great deal I would not have missed that scene, Annette.”

“No, indeed, grandmother! I think it will be very hard to sit here all evening and not know what is going on; shall we walk over to uncle’s now?”

“Three hours after lunch? No!”

“Kouba said the Clark boys were in the crowd; suppose I write and ask Mrs. Clark and Elsie and Sally to take tea with us. Then the men will come later, and we shall hear whatever there is to hear.”

“The Clarks may not care to come.”

“Yes they will. Let me write and ask them. We do want some one to talk to, grandmother.”

Permission being at last obtained, Annette wrote one of her nicest notes and they sent it with a slave woman across the street to the Clarks’ house. Mrs. Clark read it, laughed, and then called her daughter Sally.

“Sally,” she said, “that little minx over the way has found out that Leonard Murray is here. Answer this invitation as pleasantly as possible, but tell her we cannot leave our own home to-night, as we have company.”

“We might ask Annette here, mother.”

“That is what she expects us to do.”

“She is so pretty and cheerful.”

“We will do without her beauty and her cheerfulness to-night.”

“Joe is very fond of her.”

“That is not the question; answer as I have told you.”

But though Sally made the answer as kind as her own kind heart, nothing atoned to Annette for the fact that her little scheme—though one with a double aspect—had failed in both directions.

“They cannot come, grandmother, and they do not even ask us over there—they have company. I know who it is, for I am sure I saw Leonard Murray with the Clark boys an hour ago. But then—”

“What?”

“Sally is really ugly, and though Elsie has a pretty face, she is as dowdy as can be.”

“And so much prettier is Annette de Vries—is that what you mean?”

“Yes, that is ‘the because’ of the slight.”

“Of such a thing I would not think. ‘The because’ has nothing to do with us. And a very sweet girl is Sally Clark. Every one loves her.”

“Don’t scold me, grandmother. I have had already three disappointments. To-day is very unlucky.”

“Then sit still and let it go by. Take the days as they come to you, child.”

Annette did not immediately answer. She had gone to the window and was looking eagerly out. There was a sound of footsteps and of voices in spirited conversation. Listening and looking, she waited until voices and footsteps became faint in the distance. Then she turned to her grandmother with a shrug of satisfaction:

“I was right, as I generally am,” she said. “The Clark boys, with Leonard Murray, have just gone by. Leonard is their company. What is he there for? He never used to care for those girls. Before he went to college ‘from Sapphira to Sapphira was the limit of his way.’”

“Thou foolish one! He is none of thy affair.”

“I do not care a button for Leonard Murray, but I think my cousin Sapphira does, and—and—”

What other reasons she had were not revealed. She stood at the window with an air of mortification, which, however, soon turned to one of pride and triumph; and then she tapped the glass merrily to her thoughts.

What was the girl dreaming of? Beauty’s conquests? Social power? Love after her own heart? A marriage which would hand in her millennium? Alas, for the dreams of youth! Madame watched her in pitying silence—she knew how they would end.

CHAPTER TWO

The Spring of Life

To the roll of the drum and the shrill call of the fife the days went in a manner that was far from being disagreeable to the youthful population of New York. They enjoyed the thrill of a fear that was mingled with much excitement; and for a short period almost a license of political and patriotic temper prevailed. But to the more responsible citizens the news of war was far from welcome; so unwelcome, indeed, that only a few days before its proclamation, two petitions had been presented to the Senate signed by three hundred and ten citizens of New York, and by nearly all of the largest mercantile houses, praying that the embargo might be continued, “because they believed it would produce all the benefits of war without its calamities.” Mr. Justice Bloommaert had been one of the signers of this petition, and when he recovered the equipoise of his usually calm nature, he was astonished and a little annoyed at the precipitancy with which he had publicly changed his opinions. It was in a measure unaccountable, and he searched all the outlying posts of his inmost soul to see where the weak point had been. It was not his wife’s sarcasms or his daughter’s more pronounced sympathy—he was used to their wordy warfare, and he was sure that no persuasive force in their armoury would have driven him to the ill-advised hastiness of his unpremeditated speech on the Bowling Green.