Part 20

“So! I begin to find out things! Very good! I shall make Achille tell me.”

“Can you make Achille speak if he wishes not to speak? Try it once, and you will be sorry. Annette, Annette, I fear me for your future, if so unreasonable you are!”

“Unreasonable! Grandmother! I assure you I have many good reasons for all I do. Very unhappy I have been lately! Oh, I wish you would pity me a little!”

“Surely Annette St. Ange needs not pity. Come, now, tell me all your troubles,—very small are they,—and in telling they will go away. Achille loves you—is kind to you; Jonaca is well, you are well—what then is the matter?”

“If Achille loves me, he loves far better that pastry cook.”

“There it is—‘that pastry cook.’ You have no good right to use those words, and well you know it. The pastry cook De Singeron is now Count de Singeron, and goes home to take again his place in a court regiment. But so! even if he were yet a pastry cook, he is the friend of Achille; he is loved by Achille; by you also he ought to be loved for Achille’s sake.”

“You always take Achille’s part.”

“When Achille is right and you are wrong.”

“Thank goodness, I have done with the Count de Singeron! He left New York yesterday, and Achille sat up all night and cried about it.”

“Have you quarrelled—you and Achille?”

“No one can quarrel with Achille. If I get angry he says only, ‘Madame is not well,’ or ‘Madame needs a little rest,’ and then bows and leaves me—perhaps he kisses my hand, and then I feel as if I should like to— Oh, grandmother, it is terrible! If he would only get angry!”

“My dear one, you know not the anger of such men as Achille. That would be terrible indeed! I warn you of it. To rude words or cross words he will never condescend; but—but—the thing he will do, if you love him, your heart it will break!”

“He does not talk to me as he should. Here is this New Orleans affair! I am not told of it, and Leonard’s duel with Mr. Gilson I knew nothing of till it was over—and so it was really Achille who is to blame for the trouble with Sappha.”

“Oh! Oh! The trouble with Sappha! What did you do to Sappha, Annette?”

“Nothing much—it is not worth telling you, grandmother.”

“The judge of that I will be myself.”

“I do not wish to tell you, grandmother. It is nothing.”

“Very good! I will ask Sappha. The truth she will tell me, I know.”

“I do not like that Sappha should complain of me to you, grandmother. I will tell you myself. It was the dreadful morning of the duel. When I awoke I found Achille had gone, and I was afraid he would be hurt, and very angry indeed that he should mix himself up in Leonard Murray’s disgraceful quarrel. I thought I ought to have been considered. Just think, grandmother, how disagreeable it was likely to be for me—every one of the De Vries coming to talk it over, and all the Cruger women, and Fanny Curtenius, and the Sebrings, Fishers, Ogdens, and all the rest of them. I felt as if I could not bear the shame, and then never to have been consulted about such an affair! It was too bad.”

“That was to spare you anxiety. Achille was thoughtful for you.”

“No, he was thoughtful for himself. He knew I should not permit him to have anything to do in such a quarrel, and he really ran away from me.”

“I advise you, say nothing like that to Achille.”

“Well, then, I was angry, very angry, and I thought I would get uncle Gerardus to interfere—or you, grandmother. And uncle was unkind, and told me to go home and not to disturb aunt Carlita, who had, of course, one of her bad headaches.”

“Annette! You should not say such a thing.”

“Well, it is the truth. Aunt has a headache whenever it is inconvenient for her to have one; and uncle said Sappha had been up all night with her, and I was ordered not to worry Sappha or say anything unpleasant to her. I felt then very, very angry, and I went into the house and when I saw Sappha with her white face and injured manner I could not be quiet. I told her all that I had been told about Leonard, and she was what I call insolent to me, and she will not speak to me now; she goes away if I call there, and aunt Carlita is almost as rude. This morning she hardly noticed poor little innocent Jonaca, and she asked me to excuse her. Sappha went to her room as soon as she saw me coming.”

“Now, then, Annette, a family quarrel I will not have. In my family we have all had to bear and forbear, and you must make up friends with Sappha. What, in short, did you say that so offended your cousin? Tell me the worst.”

“Well, to be sure, I said people called Leonard a coward and usurer, and that no respectable person would speak to him, and no good girl could be seen with him, and that I, like the others, would have to shut my door against him.”

“Thou cruel one! Tell me no more—and all these things thou knew to be lies.”

“How could I know? Achille told me nothing.”

“Who did tell thee?”

“Alida de Vries, and Fanny Curtenius, and Emma Ogden, and many others.”

“And Leonard himself ate with thee on the Sunday previous to the duel, and what he told Achille thou heard. If it seemed true and good to Achille, could thou not also have believed? I am ashamed of thee! Thou hast not one decent excuse. All thou said to Sappha, thou said, knowing in thy cruel heart it was lies.”

“Grandmother, it is too bad to put all the blame on me. And I will not now be scolded as if I was a child.”

“Then why did thou come here, deceitful one? Did thou think I would bless thee for thy shameless cruelty? Go to thy own home, then.”

“Dear grandmother—you will make me ill. I cannot bear you to be angry.”

“Well, then, go tell thy cousin thou art sorry.”

“Yes, I will, if I can see her. I will do it for your sake, grandmother. I will do anything, if you will forgive me. I was so miserable that morning—if you would tell Sappha I am sorry, then perhaps she will listen to me.”

“I will see to that. I want not to have the whole city talking of the quarrel in the Bloommaert family. Our troubles are our own, and our own are our quarrels. To-morrow I will talk to Sappha; and the next day thou must make all right that is wrong. See thou do it.”

With this understanding Annette went home, and on the day appointed she visited Sappha. In the interval madame had also visited Sappha, and with the help of her son and daughter-in-law arranged a kind of truce between Annette and the cousin she had injured so seriously. But now, if never before, all three learned the strength of that unbendable will which madame had pointed out as existing in Sappha’s nature, when as yet no one had ever seen any evidence of it. Sappha agreed, for the sake of preventing gossip about the Bloommaerts, to speak politely to Annette whenever they met; and also not pointedly to avoid their meeting by disappearing whenever Annette appeared. Beyond this concession she would not move; and when madame proposed a family dinner at Annette’s house, Sappha said with a positiveness even her father respected:

“I will not enter Annette’s house.”

“That is a word that cannot stand, Sappha,” answered madame, with an almost equal positiveness.

“It will stand, grandmother,” Sappha replied, “until I enter it with Leonard Murray. Annette threatened to shut her door against Leonard. In so doing, she shut it against me. If Leonard should ever return, if he should ever forgive me—he may then forgive the woman who has caused us both so much suffering. If these unlikely things happen, we may go together to Annette’s. I will never go without him. Never!” And there was such calm invincible determination in every word she uttered that even madame felt it useless to try either reasoning or authority. Indeed, Sappha won in this plain statement of her position the perfect sympathy of her father, and he said:

“I think Sappha is quite right. The stand she has taken is unassailable. We must make the best of what she concedes. If Sappha still regards Leonard as her future husband, she can do no less.”

“But, my son—”

“Yes, my mother, I know what you would say, but in this case my daughter is right. I shall stand by my daughter.”

Then Sappha went to her father, and he put his arm around her and kissed her, and told her, “he was sure she would do the very best she could, and so he trusted her.”

In accordance, therefore, with the promise made, and the obligation implied by her father’s confidence, Sappha remained in the parlour when Annette called the next day. She came in her most expansive and effusive mood; kissed her aunt, and then in a kind of mock contrition asked Sappha if she might be permitted to kiss her also?

“I do not deserve a kiss, Sappha, I know I do not; but I am a little sinner to every one, and there is nothing I can do but say ‘Annette is sorry.’ And really I am sorry. If there is anything I can do, to undo my foolishness—”

“There is nothing, Annette.”

“It is too bad. I never dreamed of Leonard taking offence at you; every one was saying unkind things, and I thought you ought to know. I was really very miserable that morning. I hardly knew what I was saying. But the idea of Leonard going away from all his friends—and you!—that never occurred to me.”

“We will not speak of Mr. Murray. There are other things to talk of.”

“Indeed yes. Have you heard that Mary Sebring is going to Washington? Many people say, because Captain Ellis is there.”

“How is Jonaca? Why did you not bring her?”

“I left her with grandmother. She is well enough.”

This strained social intercourse was soon invaded by news of menacing national importance. The British fleet was being constantly increased, the blockade very strictly enforced, and the real conflict felt to be near at hand. The entire populace was now divided into two great parties; one was for war, the other for peace; and the fear of disunion of the States hung heavy over all.

On the Fourth of July the President had made a call for 93,500 militia; and before the middle of the month alarm for the safety of New York was so great that the men exempt from military duty formed themselves into companies to aid in its defence. On the third of August Mayor Clinton, in an address to the people, said:

“This city is in danger! We are threatened with invasion. It is the duty of all good citizens to prepare for the crisis. Let there be but one voice among us. Let every arm be raised to defend our country; our country demands our aid. She expects that every free man will be found at his post in the hour of danger, and that every free citizen of New York will do his duty.”

This appeal was answered with a prompt and stirring enthusiasm. Volunteer associations pressed forward without regard to party or situation in life. The ground of self-defence was a common ground, and rich and poor worked together on the same works, intermingling their labours with patriotic emulation. The Bowling Green and Brooklyn Heights were like military camps; indeed, the whole city was one great company enrolled to save New York, or perish with it. On the twenty-sixth day of August the Evening Post announced the taking of Washington and the flight of the President, and the wildest excitement prevailed; and on the following morning, the press unanimously called:

TO ARMS! CITIZENS, TO ARMS!

YOUR CAPITAL IS TAKEN! PREPARE TO DEFEND OUR CITY TO THE LAST EXTREMITY! THIS IS NO TIME TO TALK! WE MUST ACT AND ACT WITH VIGOUR, OR WE ARE LOST!

In the meantime the government had revised its instructions to the envoys for peace. The rights stipulated for in 1813 and 1814 they were told to abandon; and “if necessary waive every point for which the war was commenced.” Nothing could more urgently describe the urgent necessity of the country, which, indeed, was financially and commercially on the brink of ruin. Her harbours were blockaded; communications coastwise between all ports cut off; ships rotting in every creek and cove where they could find security, and the immense annual products of the country mouldering in warehouses. The sources of profitable labour were dried up, and the currency considered as irredeemable paper. Nor were these things the worst features of the situation. A still more dangerous symptom of the national emergency was the hostility of certain portions of the Union. Secession in some States was a proposition not unlikely to become a fact; while the credit of the government was exhausted, and the war apparently as far from a close as ever it had been.

The winter also was very severe, the Hudson frozen across to Jersey City, and the Sound frozen across from the mainland to Sands Point. There was much poverty and suffering, and a great gloom and depression owing to the apparent failure of the Peace Commissioners at Ghent to effect any reasonable agreement. Yet among the military social entertainments were frequent, and the people prominent in New York social life still kept up the pretence of fashion, and gave dinners, balls, and theatre parties, which had a kind of half-hearted semblance of gaiety.

Sapphira Bloommaert availed herself of the reasonable excuse which public calamity gave her to retire from everything society called “pleasure”; therefore her absence from Annette’s entertainments escaped the unpleasant notice it would otherwise have received. Annette was able to parry all inquiries on two grounds; first, on Sappha’s national sympathy; or, if this reason was incredulously received, mysteriously to associate Mr. Murray’s name with that of his country. “Sappha was so sensitive; her country was in distress, and then also, her lover was in danger. Yes, Mr. Murray had joined General Jackson at New Orleans, and every one knew what a reckless soldier General Jackson was. Of course Sappha was not in a dancing mood. She could understand. For if Mr. St. Ange was with General Jackson, she would be incapable of seeing any one, even her dearest friends.”

People thought with her, or not with her, Annette cared little. They had been given reasons for Sappha’s absence from social affairs, and they could not, to her face, go beyond them. But Achille was not to be so easily put off. He himself had taken to the judge the information that Leonard was with General Jackson; and after this honourable certainty of her lover’s position he saw no reason for Sappha’s seclusion.

“Why does Sappha decline all our invitations, Annette?” he asked one night, after a rather disappointing dance. “We do miss her so much.”

“I endure her absence very comfortably,” replied Annette. “Sappha has been ill-natured with me ever since— Oh, for a long time. How do you like Miss Bogardus?”

“Very well, she accommodates herself perfectly; but why is Sappha at disagreement with you? It is a pity. Our parties do not succeed without her. She is so lovely, so enchanting in her grace and kindness.”

“Well, then, you may accustom yourself to do without her beauty, and enchantments, and grace, and kindness. She will never enter this house again! There now! I know it! and I am not broken-hearted, Achille.”

“Madame is what she calls joking?”

Achille asked this question in a cold, even voice, but if Annette had been a wise woman she would have regarded the look in his eyes and the stern set of his lips as ominous and implacable. On the contrary, she defied them, being roused to that attitude by a number of little annoyances, of which this inquiry concerning Sappha was the culmination. She flung down the bracelet she had been unclasping in a temper, and answered:

“One does not joke about Sapphira Bloommaert. No, indeed! A girl that cannot understand a little mistake—a mere slip of the tongue.”

“You astonish me, Annette,” answered Achille. “I have always considered your cousin as most amiable—most easy to persuade. What slip, what mistake, did you make?”

“I do not care to talk about Sappha any longer. I am weary.”

“Then madame must sleep and rest. I can myself ask Sappha; perhaps I may rectify the little mistake—the slip—”

“Oh, Achille, do let the subject drop!”

“It interests, it excites me. There is a wrong; that is unfortunate. I may put it right. When did the little mistake occur?”

Then Annette perceived that she must tell the story herself or have the whole subject reopened. The latter course, with her uncle, aunt, and grandmother all opposed to her, was not to be endured. She was undressing her hair, and she turned round and faced Achille with its pale beauty streaming over her shoulders and emphasising the living whiteness of her face and throat; and Achille experienced again that singular sense of repulsion and fascination she had first inspired in his heart; for she looked more like some angry elfin creature than a mere mortal woman.

“Achille,” she said, “it will give me pleasure to tell you how I offended my cousin, who is lovely, so enchanting in her grace and kindness. You remember the morning that you had to attend to Leonard Murray’s duel? Very well, you went away without considering me. I was forced to get up, order the carriage, and ride as fast as possible to see my uncle.”

“What for? What reason? None whatever.”

“I wanted uncle Gerardus to find you—to stop you—”

“You followed me—you sent your uncle to follow me. I surely do not understand!”

“Uncle would have nothing to do with the affair, and he treated me rudely.”

“Rudely? I must see about that.”

“Good gracious, Achille! I mean unkindly. He would not interfere, and he told me not to trouble Sappha—and I was afraid for you.”

“Mon Dieu, Annette! Afraid for me!”

“And the very sight of Sappha was more than I could bear. All this trouble for me because of her cowardly lover, and so I told her what every one was calling Leonard. You know very well what that was. And she got angry, and that made me say a thing I was sorry for afterwards; and I told her that I was sorry, and she made believe to forgive me, but Sappha does not forgive right; and not even grandmother or uncle Gerardus can make her.”

“What thing was it you said?”

“I said every respectable person would shut their doors against Leonard Murray, and that I supposed I should have to shut my doors; and so now she will not come here. She says she never will come, unless Leonard comes with her.”

“Madame reminds me. This truly is madame’s house, and madame has the right to shut her doors against any one she wishes to affront. I must protect my friend, I must ask him to a house whose doors stand open for him. To-morrow I shall conclude the purchase of the Mowatt place, and we shall remove to it. I know not what day Mr. Murray may return, and the possibility of his being turned away from madame’s house fills me with anxiety.”

“Oh, Achille! Achille! We cannot leave this house. Grandfather de Vries only gave it to me on condition we lived in it. We shall lose the place, and it is valuable property. Oh, Achille!”

“Madame must understand that I would rather lose the property than lose my friend.”

From this position Achille would not retire, and Annette’s friends would not interfere. Madame said “she had no control over Annette’s finances, and that it was De Vries’ way to keep a string tied to every dollar not entirely under his own hand. And when Annette grew sentimental over the place, as “one of her wedding gifts” and “her bride home,” madame said:

“Full of memories it was, before you were born, Annette, and they are not all pleasant ones. At the cost of your purse, your tongue has talked; I hope, then, you will remember the lesson you pay dearly for.” Mrs. Bloommaert thought the Mowatt house would be healthier for Jonaca. It was high and sunny, and she advised her niece to accept it cheerfully on that ground. But the judge administered the most consoling opinion, for he laughed at Annette’s fears and said, “Batavius de Vries was non compos mentis and incapable of making any change in his will that would stand.” This assurance set Annette firmly on her feet. She accepted the inevitable as if it was precisely the thing she had been longing for. And though Achille was astonished at her charming complaisance and co-operation, he admired her tact, and rewarded it by adorning and furnishing her rooms in the delicate blues she affected.