The Belle of Bowling Green
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?
So there was an uncomfortable hour of waiting, and as Achille came not
Madame Bloommaert proposed to serve dinner without his presence. “For
one laggard,” she said, “to keep twenty-eight people waiting is not
right, Annette. At once, now, the dinner ought to be served.”
Annette agreed to this, but it was hard for her to smile, and to keep
back tears. However, just as Judge Bloommaert was going to take
Achille’s place the laggard entered. And he was in such a radiant mood
that he passed over as insignificant his delay. “He was a little
late--he had forgotten--but then it was remarkable that he should have
remembered at all. Such news! Such glorious news? Oh, it had been a
wonderful morning!”
In further conversation he said his friend Monsieur de Singeron had