The Belle of Bowling Green
“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.
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