Part 21

The news of this change of residence caused far less surprise and talk than Annette had anticipated. No one seemed to consider it of much importance, and the reasons and excuses for her removal which Annette had prepared were hardly called for. Indeed, most people had interests of their own to employ all their speculation, for the winter was the most hopeless one New York had suffered since the commencement of the war. Many, like Sapphira Bloommaert, refused all invitations to parties of pleasure; some on patriotic grounds, many more because the financial pressure of the times forbade extravagance of every kind. And as if to sanction and strengthen this retirement, the President urged the keeping of the twelfth day of January, 1815, as a day of fasting, humiliation, and prayers for peace. The bitter cold, the deep snows, the scarcity of all necessaries of life, the silence and suspense enforced by the winter, affected the most careless; and there was an oppressive feeling and a longing for peace that could not be thrown off.

The reviving stir under this national nightmare did not occur until the evening of February the eleventh. Sappha was reading to her father the travels of Mungo Park, and they were much interested in them. Even Mrs. Bloommaert had let her work fall to her lap, and was listening with moist eyes to Park’s despair in the desert and his restoration to hope and life by the sight of a little wild flower in the desolate place. Suddenly a chorus of exulting shouts filled the Bowling Green. The judge leaped to his feet.

“It is peace!” he cried. “Open the windows! Let us hear! Let us see!” And at that moment every window on the Bowling Green was thrown open. Men were pouring from the houses into the street, as a deep harmonius anthem came rolling down Broadway, into the Bowling Green, an anthem of one glad note—“Peace! Peace! Peace!”

Regardless of all warnings and entreaties, the judge went out. “The news will keep me warm,” he said; and as he hastily buttoned up his long coat he looked twenty years younger. “You need not be anxious about father to-night,” said Sappha to her mother. “He will take no harm, and, oh, how I wish I could go with him!”

By this time every house in the neighbourhood was illuminated and open; the women in them calling and waving to each other. The forts were bellowing the news up and down the river; and for four hours thousands of men and women were constantly passing through the Bowling Green carrying torches and crying with jubilant voices the same glad word, “Peace! Peace! Peace!” And above all this joyful hubbub the bells of Trinity rang clear and strong, echoing between earth and heaven the same exulting song.

Not until after midnight did the judge return home. He had been a sick man for a week. He was then quite well, full of hope, almost drunk with enthusiasm. Hot coffee was waiting for him, but he called for meat, and insisted on having it. “The doctor has nothing to do with my case to-night,” he said. “I know what I want, Carlita. I am hungry. I have spent ten years of life the past four hours. Glad of it—well spent are they! Give me meat and bread. Oh, then, I will take coffee, but it ought to be wine—the best wine in the world is not enough.”

He was throwing off his coat as he spoke, and he then went to the roaring fire and spread out his wet feet to its warmth. His wife looked with terror at their condition.

“I did not know they were wet, Carlita,” he said. “I never thought of my feet. Kouba, take off my shoes and stockings and get dry ones. My feet were too happy to be sick; they never gave me one twinge! Why, Carlita, I have walked miles to-night, and I am not tired.”

“And you are so hoarse that you can scarcely whisper, Gerardus.”

“Am I? Then I must have been shouting with the rest. I did not know it. Never mind, the news is worth the shout. Now my feet are dry and warm, give me my coffee, and something to eat; and I will talk to you—if I can.”

“Did you see anything of Peter?”

“I met him. He had been to mother’s, and he was coming for me.”

“How did Peter hear so quickly?”

“He was sitting in the office of The Gazette in Hanover Square. Peter goes there often in the evenings. It is a great place of resort for the men of that quarter; but being Saturday night no one was there but Mr. Lang and Alderman Cebra; and they were just going to shut up the office when a pilot rushed in. He stood for a moment breathless and speechless, and while they wondered he gasped out, ‘Peace! the boat is here with the treaty!’ In a minute, Peter says, every one rushed into the Square shouting Peace! and every window was thrown up, and every one in the surrounding houses was on the street. And immediately the cry was heard from all quarters of the city. The news spread like wildfire. No one could say how it happened, but in less than one hour every waking soul in New York knew it. Houses were all illuminated, and I wonder if there was any one left in them, for the streets were crowded with men and women both; and none thought of the cold, and no one knew that it was snowing.”

“And now you can hardly speak, Gerardus.”

“I have been shouting, though I did not know that I opened my lips. Such a song of gladness I shall never hear again, Carlita, in this world. I am glad I lost my voice in it.”

“Well and good; but what did the Democrats say? Did they—”

“We were all Democrats, and we were all Federalists to-night. Men that have not spoken to each other for four years shook hands to-night. Strangers were friends to-night. There were no rich and no poor to-night. We were all citizens of New York to-night. We were all brothers. Carlita, Sappha, I would not have missed to-night for anything in the world.”

“I am afraid you will have to suffer for it, Gerardus.”

“I do not believe it. I never felt better in all my life. Why, here comes Mr. Goodrich!” And with these words a bright, exulting gentleman walked into the room.

“Your door stood open, judge,” he said, “and I did not know you were able to be out, so I thought I would call and rejoice a while with you.”

“I have been on the street for four hours, Mr. Goodrich; four of the happiest hours of my life. You know about that?”

“Thank God, I do! I went last night to Miss Dellinger’s concert and ball at the City Hotel. She was singing The Death of Lawrence when I heard a strange murmur, and then a wild shout on the street. The next moment the door of the concert hall was thrown open and a man, breathless with excitement, rushed in crying ‘Peace! Peace! An English sloop-of-war is here with the treaty.’ The music instantly ceased, and the hall was empty in a few minutes. No one thought of the song, no one remembered the ball. We all, men and women, rushed into the street. Broadway was a living tide of happy, shouting human beings. Many were bare-headed, and did not know it. No one cared for the cold. They were white with snow, and quite indifferent to the fact.”

“I saw them! I was among them! I must have been shouting too, but I was not aware of it at the time. Have you heard from any one what terms we have got? Will you believe that I have not thought of ‘terms’ until this moment?”

“Nor have I, judge. I have heard no one ask about the terms. No one cares about terms just yet. We have peace! That is enough!”

CHAPTER TEN

The Star of Peace

The one idea of New York, now that peace was assured, was renovation and reconstruction. Every one was busy. The war was a dead issue, commerce was a living one. The passion for trading and building took the place of the military passion, and the happy sounds of labour and traffic superseded those of the cannon and the drum.

The preservation of the city had been for four years the dominant care of its inhabitants; now that it was safe they turned with a vehement spirit of industry to building up trade and commerce in every direction. It was under these auspices a joyful city. There was less dancing and dining, but there was a growing prosperity and content, for all had some business or handicraft to pursue, and all were full of hope and energy.

And the spirit of reconstruction was as potent in women as in men, though their arena for its exercise was more restricted. Mrs. Bloommaert began at once to talk of new carpets and curtains, and of a complete refurnishing of the principal rooms of the house. And as the spring came on every dwelling on the Bowling Green caught this fever of improvement; and first one and then another displayed to passers-by their fresh paint and their new lace draperies. It was a sign of some consequence, for it typified the strength of that hope and energy which embraced domestic comforts and elegancies as part and parcel of their civic prosperity.

In all the changes made in the Bloommaert house Sappha felt, or at least affected to feel, a sufficient interest. She could not shadow her mother’s busy pleasure by any evident want of sympathy, yet it was sometimes difficult to forget sufficiently her offended lover. Her soul—that strange, fluttering mystery—had lost its life’s dominant, the other soul to which it had learned to refer every thought and desire; and there was now silence or discord where once there had been sweetest melody. Her suffering, however, was no longer a storm, it was rather a still, hopeless rain, an unimpassioned grief that seldom found the natural outlet of tears. But these constant fires of repression and self-immolation were sacramental as well as sacrificial. They were strong with absolution also; and thus made calm and sure by much sorrow and by one love, she gradually came out of trouble with a spirit tempered as by fire; having lost nothing in the furnace but the dross of her nobler qualities.

She rarely heard of Leonard. She knew that he was in New Orleans, and attached to the staff of General Jackson; and so, in the final struggle, doing his duty to his country. But she never forgot the fact that he ought to have been in his native city. “It is my fault, all my fault. No wonder Leonard cannot forgive me,” she said when Mrs. Bloommaert blamed his absence during the darkest days New York had known.

The news of the victory at New Orleans followed closely on the news of peace. It was brought to the Bloommaert household by Achille, who received it with a letter from Mr. Edward Livingston. “Our friend Leonard Murray was wounded in the right arm,” he added; “rather a bad sword cut, but he is with the Livingstons, and has every possible care and attention.”

Annette came in later, and, unaware of her husband’s visit, made a great deal more of Leonard’s wound than Achille had done. She “hoped it would not be necessary to resort to amputation—a right arm was so convenient, not to say necessary. And he got it just for interfering,” she continued. “An English officer had struck down a man carrying the flag, and Leonard caught the flag as it was falling, and then of course the Englishman fell upon Leonard. Leonard always was so interfering—I mean so ready to do every one’s duty for them. You see it was not his place to take care of the flag; so he got hurt taking care of it. Grandfather de Vries always told me never to volunteer, and never to interfere. If a person does his own work and duty in this world, it is all that can be expected of him. Poor Leonard!”

“Oh!” said Sappha, “I think you may keep your pity, Annette, for these poor creatures who never volunteer and never interfere. Suppose every one had followed your grandfather’s advice, where would America be now?”

“I do not know. It is not my place to look after America,” answered Annette.

“I will tell you then—it would be under the feet of England.”

“Grandfather de Vries often says there were very good times when the English were here—”

“Come, come, Annette,” interrupted Mrs. Bloommaert, “you are only talking nonsense. When do you move into your new house?”

“Next month. Achille is delightfully considerate. All my rooms are furnished in blue, because he thinks blue so becoming to me; and he takes my advice entirely about the rest. We shall have the most elegant dwelling in the city; and I am glad this dreadful war is over. Now I can get the carpets I desire.”

“Did Mrs. Livingston say anything about the condition of New Orleans?” asked Mrs. Bloommaert.

“I did not read her letter. Achille desired me to do so, but I have honour. I would not read Mrs. Livingston’s letter. I do not see why she should write to my husband. I do not write to Mr. Livingston.”

“She is an old friend of Achille’s. Mr. Livingston is much too busy to write letters. Perhaps she thought Leonard Murray had friends in New York who would be glad to hear that he was well cared for.”

“Do you believe that Leonard Murray yet remembers us? I do not. We were all so kind to the young man, and Achille stood by him when no one else would. Oh, you need not leave the room, Sappha! I was just going to praise Leonard a little.”

But Sappha did leave the room, and Mrs. Bloommaert said with some temper:

“You have done mischief enough, Annette; why can you not let Leonard alone? You are too unkind to Sappha.”

“Oh, then, aunt, I think it is Sappha who is truly cruel to me. Because she will not come to our house, I shall have to remove to that ugly Mowatt place. I hate it. All the pretty furniture in the world will not make it endurable; and if Sappha will not visit us there, I know not what Achille will say or do. To be driven from house to house for Sappha’s temper is not a pleasant or a reasonable thing.”

“Before Sappha’s temper, there was your own temper, Annette; and I am sure you need not expect Sappha to visit you in your new home unless you also expect Leonard.”

“I suppose I shall have to write to Leonard, and tell him the trouble I am in. I think he would come back and get Sappha to forgive me properly, if I ask him. He was always very fond of me.”

“If you write to Leonard Murray one word about Sapphira Bloommaert I will never speak to you again, Annette. You may depend upon that! How can you be so malicious?”

“Malicious! You will misunderstand me, aunt Carlita. I thought perhaps if I wrote and told Leonard how angry Sappha was, and how Achille had nearly quarrelled with me about Sappha, he might come back to New York. And I am sure any one can see that Sappha is breaking her heart about his desertion of her.”

“Sappha is doing nothing of the kind. Sappha is perfectly happy.”

“Oh, I am so glad to hear it! Sappha is perfectly happy! Why did she go away? I really meant nothing unkind. If she had only remained, I was going to tell her about Aglae Davezac, Mrs. Livingston’s lovely sister. I dare say she consoles Leonard very well. She is not handsome, but she has a beautiful figure, and is very witty.”

“Annette, if you will believe me, we are neither of us interested in either Mrs. Livingston or her lovely sister. There are things nearer home. When did you call on your grandmother? She was complaining of your neglect lately.”

“I am just going to see her.”

“I hope you will tell her exactly what you have said here.”

“No, we shall talk about Jonaca and the new house. Good-morning, aunt!”

Annette’s visits had fallen into this kind of veiled unfriendliness. She would have ceased coming to the Bowling Green at all if Achille’s pointed inquiries had not forced her into a semblance of civility, for she blamed Sappha, not only for her removal to the Mowatt house, but also for many a passage of words between Achille and herself that were less agreeable than they ought to have been, or would have been if Sappha had not formed the subject of discussion. And from Annette’s point of view, perhaps there was cause for some irritation. For a few hasty words which Sappha refused to ignore, there had been many hasty ones between herself and Achille; and, moreover, she did not feel the Mowatt house any equivalent for the roomy, aristocratic dwelling she had been compelled to abandon. Every annoyance that came up regarding this removal she blamed Sappha for; and though she affected to be pleased with the change, it had not only been a bitter mortification to her, but also brought other unpleasant consequences in its train. For it had been just the very kind of thing necessary to rouse Achille to a sense of small household tyranny that he had tolerated because he preferred toleration to assertion. But having once affirmed and exerted his right he had not again relinquished the authority of master.

“I submitted too easily,” said Annette, when discussing the subject with her grandmother; “and now Achille just says ‘madame will do this,’ or ‘madame will go there,’ or ‘madame will say so-and-so,’ and I seem to have no power to say madame will not. Oh, grandmother, just for a few words! It is too much punishment! I was so happy, and now I am not happy at all. I sometimes wish that I could die.”

“Annette, my dear one, thou must not make more of trouble than there is. Often I have told thee not to complain; after complaint there is no oblivion. If Achille can be polite, cannot thou be silent? With silence, one may plague the devil; but as for spoken words, no sponge wipes them out.”

Thus and so events were progressing, as the spring of 1815 waxed to June and roses again. There was at this time some probability that the judge might be requested to go to England as legal adviser to agents sent by the government to arrange some question of boundary not very clearly stated; and if so, he proposed to take his wife and daughter with him.

Sappha heard of this arrangement with dismay, and it was hard for her to enter into her mother’s little flurry of anticipation. She did not wish to leave New York at all, for she felt certain that Leonard would return as soon as he was able, if only to look after his large interests in property and real estate. For in the short time intervening between the advent of peace and the advent of summer the whole aspect of New York had been changed. Stores and warehouses long closed were open, houses of all kinds had found ready tenants, the streets were crowded with vehicles, the shipyards literally alive, and vessels coming and going constantly from and to every quarter of the globe. There was not a branch of industry nor a corner of the city where New York’s citizens were not proving their liberal views, their broad intelligence, and their energetic activity. How could Leonard Murray stay away from his own city when it was offering him such advantages for new investments and such excellent opportunities for those he already possessed?

She did not include herself among the reasons for his return. She had no hope that she could influence it in any way. If Leonard had not quite forgotten her, he had at least resolved not to renew their acquaintance in any degree. If this were not the case, he would have written to her, sent her some message, some token, if it were only a flower. And at this point she always felt anew the pang of despair; for Leonard would never give her another flower. She had no reason to expect it, she did not deserve it. Here reflection stopped. It could go no further, the memory of that scattered rose was a barrier that no love could put aside or win over.