The Belle of Bowling Green
“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.”