The Belle of Bowling Green 9 – Barr · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The Belle of Bowling Green 9Chapter 9
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Literature · Romance
The Belle of Bowling Green 9
Chapter 9
BarrEnglish
The Reproof of the Sword
Leonard’s suffering was very great, but Sappha’s was still greater. Wounded love, injustice, and disappointment can inflict mental distress that has no parallel in physical pain, but with Sappha’s misery was mingled the intolerable drop of remorse for her hasty passion. Now that all was over, now that Leonard had gone away forever, there came to her the clearest conviction that she had done him a great wrong. She remembered that she had not even given him an opportunity to explain circumstances--she had met him with passionate reproaches and flung his love gift, torn and mutilated, at his feet. After that shameful, piteous rejection what could Leonard do but go away? It was an act for which there could be no apology and no forgiveness. She cried out with the anguish this cruel, hopeless reflection caused her; and had Leonard been really present she would have fallen at his feet in an agony of love and repentance.
Prone upon her bed she lay, torturing herself by a thousand self-reproaches, and by a perpetual memory of that last look of pained amazement with which her lover had regarded her. She could not put it from her, it seemed to have exorcised every other memory of his face. With heartbroken sobs she sent after him one cry, “Forgive me! Oh, Leonard, forgive me!” But the void between them swallowed it up in silence. There was nothing to be done. The long, long days and years before her held only frustrate longings and despair. This reflection came to her as a finality, and she ceased weeping and protesting and lay dumb and passive like a child smitten by a power it can neither appease nor comprehend.
Her mother found her in this mood, and when Sappha said, “I cannot come to dinner to-day, I am in trouble. Annette told me things about Leonard, and I have sent him away forever!” the mother understood and was full of pity.
“Do not try to come down, dear,” she answered. “As soon as your father goes out, I will return to you.”
“Are you better, mother? Are you able to attend to father?”
“Yes, yes, I am well again. Ah, me, there is always sorrow at somebody’s heart!”
“It is my own fault, mother. Leonard is not to blame. I will tell you--after a little while.”
Then Mrs. Bloommaert went with a heavy heart to serve the dinner; for whether heads are aching or hearts breaking dinner is a fact that cannot be excused. She was full of anxious thought as she went about the table, placing sauces, condiments, and wines, and arranging the small details which always pleased her husband. He had been depressed and angry concerning Leonard Murray’s conduct for some days, and she wondered how the news of Sappha’s dismissal of the young man would affect him.
Contrary to all expectation he entered the house in high spirits. He was delighted to find his wife better, and able to give him her company and sympathy; and as soon as they were alone he began to talk to her about Leonard in a manner full of pride and satisfaction. Nor was he much dashed by the information that there had been a quarrel between the lovers, and a final separation.
“Final separation!” he repeated, with an incredulous laugh. “Nonsense. That is a regular climax to a love fever. They will be more devoted than ever in a week’s time. Tell her what I have just told you, and they will be friends in half an hour.”
“I fear not. Leonard has shown wonderful patience so far, but my father used to say ‘beware the anger of a patient man’; for when once his patience has given way, his anger is not to be pacified.”
“All foolishness, Carlita. Go and tell Sappha everything. I promised to meet St. Ange about three o’clock; you see I have not any time to spare now.”
“I do not know what Annette said to Sappha--something ill-natured, no doubt; but I wonder St. Ange did not give her strict orders to keep her tongue quiet about this business.”
“You wonder St. Ange did not give Annette ‘strict orders.’ Well, Carlita, I wonder at your simplicity. Who can order a bad-tempered woman’s tongue? Tell Sappha I have gone with St. Ange to see Leonard. Doubtless I shall bring him home with me.”
He went out with this pleasant anticipation, and Mrs. Bloommaert arranged a little dinner for her daughter, and sent it upstairs to her. “You must eat, Sappha,” she said, “you can’t live on your tears. And I have good news for you--very good news. See now, how nice this roast chicken looks, and the beans, and the strawberry tart; and I made the tea myself; yes, dear, you must have a cup of tea, and you must first tell me all that Annette, the cruel ill-natured woman, said to you.”
This confidence helped Sappha wonderfully. She could rightly enough blame Annette, and there was relief in shifting so much of the reproach from herself. And Mrs. Bloommaert felt no scruple in throwing the whole weight of the unfortunate affair on Annette. “It would never have happened, never!” she said, “if Annette had been minding her house and her baby instead of following Achille round; and then because she could not find him she must come and vent her home-made wretchedness on you. I wish I had heard her! She called Leonard a coward, did she?”
“She said every respectable person thought him one, and she repeated many things about him getting enormous interest from the city--oh, mother, I cannot go over it again.”
“There is no need to do so. Leonard Murray has turned all such ideas topsy-turvy. Now I am going to tell you all about it, and you will see how well he has managed this miserable business. On Sunday he went to see Achille, and Achille told him he could forbear no longer, and though Leonard thought it was a kind of cowardice to fight a man so inferior in skill both with sword and pistol to himself, Achille convinced him there was no other way to prevent Gilson lying. So early on Monday morning Achille called upon Gilson. He first presented to him a paper acknowledging all his accusations against Leonard to be false and malicious, requiring him to sign it. But Gilson fell into a great passion, and said he would fight St. Ange for daring to offer him such an insult; and Achille answered, ‘it would give him a supreme pleasure to allow him an opportunity as soon as his friend, Mr. Murray, had received satisfaction.’ Then he gave him Leonard’s challenge. The fellow threw it carelessly down on the table, and said ‘he was going to Boston on important affairs, but when he returned he would make immediate arrangements to meet Mr. Murray and teach him to mind his own business.’ ‘On the contrary,’ said Achille, ‘you will meet Mr. Murray before you go to Boston. You will meet him to-morrow morning at half-past seven o’clock in Hahn’s wood, Hoboken. You know the place. Or if there is any other place you prefer, I am here to make arrangements.’ Gilson said, ‘one place was as good as another.’ Then they agreed that the weapons should be rapiers, and Gilson laughed scornfully, and ‘hoped the clearing at Hahn’s wood was not too large, for he intended close quarters. Murray,’ he said, ‘could not have half an acre to skip about in.’ To which fresh insult Achille answered that if Mr. Gilson wished close quarters he felt sure Mr. Murray would be delighted to fight on a billiard table.”
“I like Achille, mother, yes I do!”
“Achille is a good friend in need. He made all other arrangements for the duel, and Gilson promised that he and his friend Myron Hays would be on the ground at half-past seven the following morning. He used a deal of very bad language in making these arrangements. Your father said we could imagine it as bad as we chose, and that then it would come far short of the reality.”
“So there was a duel this morning! Oh, mother, if I had only known!”
“Do not hurry me, Sappha. I want to tell you all just as it happened. Leonard did not trust Gilson’s promise, nor did Achille. They determined to watch him; and they found out two things: first, that he intended leaving New York for Boston soon after seven; second, that he had ordered breakfast for himself and Myron Hays fifteen minutes before seven at the City Hotel.”
“But, mother, Gilson must have known that Leonard stayed at the City Hotel?”
“Of course he knew; but he felt sure Leonard would be crossing the river at that time. Then he would have taken his breakfast, sending the while repeated inquiries as to whether any one had seen Leonard or St. Ange, and affecting great indignation at their non-appearance. Finally some insolent message of future defiance and punishment would have been left with the proprietor for Leonard. Oh, can you not see through the foolish, cowardly plan?”
“It was a contemptible scheme, and full of weak points, mother,” answered Sappha.
“It would have answered well enough; it would, at least, have thrown doubt and contempt on both men. Fortunately Leonard and St. Ange followed Gilson so closely that they were at his side ere he had finished giving the order for serving his coffee. ‘At present,’ said St. Ange very politely, ‘there is not time for coffee. We will cross the river at once, sir,’ and Gilson answered, ‘I am going to Boston on most important business. Mr. Murray must have got my letter explaining.’ Then Leonard said, ‘You never wrote me any letter, sir. And you are not going to Boston, you are going to Hoboken, and that at once.’ Gilson still insisted that he would fight Leonard when he came back from Boston, and St. Ange told him he could have that satisfaction if he wished it; but first of all, he must fulfil his present engagement. ‘All is ready for it, he continued; ‘a boat waits for you and Mr. Hays at the foot of the garden, and another boat for Mr. Murray and myself will keep yours in sight.’ Then the man looked at his second, and Mr. Hays said it was proper to go at once, and he was thus morally, or unmorally, forced into compliance. At the last moment Gilson ‘supposed arms and a doctor had been remembered,’ and St. Ange told him those duties had been delegated to him and properly attended to. ‘The doctor,’ he said, ‘was in their boat, and the swords also,’ the latter having been approved by Mr. Hays on the previous day, at which time it was also agreed that Gilson should have his choice of the two weapons. St. Ange told your father there had been several irregularities, but that all had been arranged with perfect fairness by himself and Mr. Hays.”
At this juncture Sappha lost all control of her emotions and began to weep and lament; and her mother rather sharply continued: “Tears are not needed at all, Sappha. Leonard was perfectly calm. Of his own safety he had not a fear. He and St. Ange kept Gilson’s boat in sight until they landed; then the ground was marked off, and the men threw away their coats and vests and received their swords from the seconds. I cannot tell you just what happened, but your father could make it plain enough I dare say. To me it was only thrust and parry, touch and go, for a few minutes, then Leonard made a feint at Gilson’s breast, but by a movement instantaneous as a thought nailed his right foot to the ground with his rapier. The man shrieked, and would have seized Leonard’s sword, but that action was instantly prevented by the seconds. The affair was over. Gilson was at Leonard’s mercy, and when he withdrew his sword St. Ange said, ‘Doctor, the case is now yours. And then turning to Gilson he continued, ‘Mr. Gilson, if you cannot control your tongue in the future, we will do this as often as you like.’”
“I hope the man will not die, mother!”
“Oh, no! Leonard intended only to punish him. He will have a few weeks’ severe pain, and may have to use a crutch for a longer time--perhaps he may not dance any more; but he only received what he richly deserved.”
“But I do not see, mother, how this duel will put Leonard right in people’s estimation.”
“Oh, my dear, St. Ange took good care to secure witnesses to Gilson’s cowardly attempt to get away; and the men who rowed the two boats were there, to report for the newspapers. They heard much conversation I have not repeated. Your father also thinks Myron Hays, though he would not say much, was deceived and very indignant. You may be sure that St. Ange and Leonard arranged for a full vindication. Now, Sappha, wash your face and dress yourself prettily. Father said he would bring Leonard back to tea with him.”
“Leonard will not come with father. He will never come again, I know! I know!”
“If he does not, his behaviour will be cruel and dishonourable. Why did he not tell you about the duel!”
“He could not--I did not give him a moment’s opportunity. It was my fault--all my fault. I was so angry at what Annette told me that I met him in a passion, and before he had time to tell me why he had stayed away and what had occurred I shocked him with Annette’s false charges, one upon the other, without any pause, until I told him that Annette was going to shut her door against him. Then he asked me if we also intended to shut our door against him, and mother, I have no excuse--there is no excuse for me, none! I ought to suffer. Oh, how miserable I am! And, mother, mother, I have made my own misery.”
“You go too far, Sappha. You make too much of a few words. All lovers have quarrels, and in my opinion Leonard cannot come back too soon.”
“He will not come. He was too quiet. He said too little. He will never come back. Always, we have slighted him a little.”
“He has been very well received--do not make excuses for him on that ground. I wish Annette would keep her tongue out of our affairs. She is nothing but a mischief maker.”
“I know, but Annette could not have harmed me if I had been true to Leonard. To be ready to doubt him, only on Annette’s word, was a shameful wrong, and I deserve to be forsaken and forgotten.”
“It is Leonard’s fault more than yours. He ought to have stopped that man’s tongue at once. Any woman would have become suspicious and irritable. It was a shame for Leonard to put your love for him to such a trial. He will see that as soon as he gets over the little slight. Now dress yourself, dear, and come downstairs. What is the use of nursing sorrow in a darkened room? Sunshine makes grief more bearable. I do believe that Leonard will return with your father.”
“I will come down--but Leonard will not return with father.”
“You are very provoking, Sapphira. And I can tell you one thing, they that are determined to be miserable will always find the wherewithal for misery. Try and hope for the best,” and she kissed her and added, “Put on a fresh white frock, you look best in white.”
So Sappha did as she was counselled, but her bravery did not help her to bear her sorrow--a sorrow made worse by its uncertainty in all respects. If Leonard had only granted her a little time, if he had been patient enough to tell her of the morning’s events, if he had not given that rose of renunciation! Yes, that act of his was the real provocative of her desertion. He had told her to forget him. What could he expect but a prompt acceptance of his request? It would have been impossible at that stage to have hesitated. He had broken their betrothal, not her; how then could she hope he would make any effort to renew it?
She did not hope for it, though she obeyed her mother’s desire, and with an aching heart dressed herself in white and went downstairs. About five o’clock she heard her father’s steps, and he was not alone. But the double footsteps did not give her a moment’s hope. She knew they were not Leonard’s, and in a few moments she saw that St. Ange was her father’s companion. They were talking in tones of earnest gratification, and as soon as the ordinary greetings were over resumed their conversation.
The subject was, of course, the duel and the sympathetic response it had evoked in Leonard’s favour. Gilson’s effort to escape to Boston, his bullying language when detected, the decided white feather he had shown on the field, his cowardice under pain since he had received his punishment, were now the topics of public conversation; and the men who had been foremost in doubting Leonard Murray were now the warmest in his praise. All these things St. Ange described in his usual sparkling detail, and the judge, Mrs. Bloommaert, and Sappha listened to him with the keenest interest.
Suddenly Judge Bloommaert said: “I never heard before of a man disabling his antagonist just in that way. I wonder how Leonard learned the stroke.”
“One of Robespierre’s emigrants taught it to Leonard. He was a noble of the highest lineage, but when driven to America he embraced the simple life of the wilderness with inconceivable ardour. Leonard met him in the exploring party which he accompanied to the Mississippi, and together they went down the river to New Orleans. Their tedious voyage was relieved with sword play, and under this French noble’s tuition Leonard became an incomparable fencer. With this same stroke he disarmed Señor Zavala in New Orleans.”
“Ah! Then Murray has fought before?”
“Yes. The duel between Señor Zavala and Mr. Murray is well remembered in New Orleans.”
“Suppose, then, you tell us about it,” said Mrs. Bloommaert.
“I was not acquainted with Leonard at the time, but Mr. Livingston told me of the circumstance. The Americans in New Orleans are proud of it.”
“Why have you never named it before, then?” asked the judge.
“Leonard desired me not to speak of it because he said there was a feeling against the duel in New York, and that you, judge, whose good opinion he specially desired, were opposed to the custom. I think, indeed, that Leonard’s reluctance to notice Gilson’s slanders arose from a fear of offending you.”
“Well, St. Ange, as a general thing I do not approve of the duel; but there are exceptions to every rule, and the exceptions must be condoned. They need not, however, be repeated.”
“We are more anxious to hear about Leonard’s New Orleans affair than to discuss the right or wrong of duelling,” said Mrs. Bloommaert. And St. Ange smilingly continued:
“The occasion for it lay backward some years, even to that twentieth of December, A. D., 1801, when the tri-coloured flag of the French republic was displayed at sunrise in New Orleans for the last time. For at noon that day Governor Claiborne and General Wilkinson, at the head of the American forces, entered New Orleans, and the French Commissioner Laussant gave up the keys of the City Hall to them. Amid tears and profound silence the French flag was hauled down, and the Stars and Stripes took its place.
“There were about one hundred and fifty Americans in the city at that time, and they stood together on the corner of the Place d’Arms and cheered it. But no one else showed any approval. The French and Spanish inhabitants could not reconcile themselves to the change; prejudices amounting to superstition made them for a long time attribute everything unpleasant to the American occupation. This bias was carried so far that when, on one occasion, a public ball was interrupted by an earthquake the anger of an old Creole gentleman was roused, and he said passionately, ‘It was not in the Spanish or the French times that the amusements of the ladies were interfered with.’
“However, as soon as the cession was complete, northern immigration poured into New Orleans, and when the present war was proclaimed there was no lack of enthusiasm for its prosecution. Still some of the old antagonism remained, and one morning as Leonard was in the Place d’Arms he saw some members of a volunteer regiment deploy there. A boyish American carried the flag in front of them, and Señor Zavala as he passed made a very offensive and contemptuous remark. Leonard stepped out and asked if he intended that remark for the American flag. Zavala answered, ‘It is most welcome to it, Señor.’ Leonard challenged him there and then. As Zavala was something of a bravo, he looked amused, and, when he saw that Leonard was in earnest, annoyed. For he did not like to fight such a youth; he had the same scruple that influenced Leonard in fighting Gilson; he considered himself so superior in skill to his challenger that an acceptance was very like cruelty, if not also cowardice.
“But Leonard would not retreat, and Zavala declined to make any apology, and the duel took place. A great interest was evinced in this affair, though duels were common enough on every subject, and Leonard had especially the watchful sympathy of every American in the city. They were resolved that at least he should have fair play, and that if he had been wounded there were plenty of men ready to take up his quarrel with Zavala. To the amazement of every one Zavala was disarmed in less than five minutes, and in precisely the same manner as Gilson. But his behaviour was very different. He made no outcry, he knew the code too well to touch his antagonist’s sword, and it was with a polite smile he handed his rapier to Leonard and said, ‘Señor, my sword is yours. I make my apology to you and to your flag.’”
“I have nothing to say against that duel,” said the judge, and Mrs. Bloommaert’s face was radiant with sympathy and approval. Sappha’s eyes, heavy with unshed tears, were dropped, and she could not speak. Had she tried her very words would have wept.
“Leonard behaved splendidly,” continued St. Ange. “With his weapon he withdrew all ill feeling, and during Zavala’s convalescence he passed some time with him every day, and supplied him with attentions and luxuries Zavala’s own means could not have procured. The conclusion of this story I heard yesterday. Zavala is now enrolled for the defence of the very flag he insulted. Mr. Livingston had the news in a letter, and he recalled the duel to my memory in order to emphasise the result.
“It is rather remarkable,” said the judge. “I never heard of this affair before.”
“Well, no!” answered Achille. “It was only known by the Livingstons, myself, and Leonard; and none of us thought it well to talk about it here. New York is not New Orleans, where the duel is concerned. To have fought a few successful duels in New Orleans is a social distinction; in New York the result socially is doubtful. You have only to look at Mr. Burr----”
“There is a heavier charge against Mr. Burr than the duel--his country----”
“Pardon me, judge, his country’s laws have declared him innocent; can we go behind judge, jury, and the written law?”
At this question Mrs. Bloommaert rose from the table, and Sappha quietly left the room, and did not return to it. Every word uttered by Achille had intensified her grief and made more bitter her repentance. Never before had she understood her lover or rightly valued his affection. Alas, alas, that sorrow should be the clearest of all revelations! Love too often bandages the eyes of the soul, but sorrow rends away all obstructions to vision. At that hour Sappha saw Leonard as she had never before seen him--his unselfishness, his modesty, his patience, the truth and tenderness of his affection, his beauty and graciousness, the living joy that his companionship had been to her. Oh, there was no end to such recollections! and her soul ached in all its senses, for by her own act she had cast ashes on every one of the sweet memories between them.
It was, however, well for her that she could not indulge too much this rapturous pain of memory, for it unfitted her for the world she had to live in; a world empty to her, but thrilling to the highest passions all around her. For none could be indifferent to the fact that peace in Europe meant a far more active war against America. Hitherto, England’s hands had been tied by her conflict with Napoleon and all the nations allied with him; now she was at liberty to turn her armaments against America. Yet, though the people of New York were alive to their danger, and not careless in preparing to meet it, they had never been so remarkable for their entertainments and pleasure taking. All the newspapers commented on the fact, pointing out the number of places of amusement open every night, and the constant steamboat excursions every day.
From all these sources of pleasure Sapphira Bloommaert disappeared. It was said she was in ill health, but as every one knew of her engagement to Leonard Murray her seclusion was generally attributed to his absence. For Sappha’s premonition had been correct; Leonard did not return to her. She watched despairingly for several days, and then heard that he had left the city. It was the judge’s painful duty to give this information to his child, and though he named the circumstance, as it were, casually, he saw and felt the suffering his words caused. Sappha did not speak, but Mrs. Bloommaert said with an angry amazement:
“Gone! Where, then, has he gone to, Gerardus?”
“I know not. No one knows, unless it be lawyer Grahame, or Achille. Grahame will never say a word, nor Achille, until he gets warrant for it.”
“But there must be some opinion,” continued Mrs. Bloommaert. “Men cannot disappear without leaving at least an opinion.”
“Well then, there are several opinions. Some think he has gone to the Niagara frontier, others to Washington, and not a few are sure he is on his way to New Orleans. I myself think New Orleans very likely; he has interests and friends there.”
And Sappha listened and ate her bread to this sorrowful news. Only her colourless face revealed her suffering at that moment; but it showed itself in various ways after this certainty had been accepted. One of the most pronounced forms it took was a feeling of intense dislike and anger towards Annette. She would not go to Annette’s house, nor would she see her if she called at the Bowling Green house. Her reasons were sufficient to herself, and Mrs. Bloommaert thought her daughter justified in her conduct. Not yet could she ask Sappha to forgive; not while her eyes held that look of pain and despair, and her whole manner that of one standing smitten and dismayed before a barrier she could not cross.
As a matter of course, the unhappy Sappha passed her days “going quietly,” almost hopelessly, for there was in her grief that element of tragic fatality, that sense of Fate shaping life by the most trivial things, that renders men and women despairing. Never before had she given sway to a temper so unreasonable, so impetuous, so passionately hasty. And surely not without the co-operation of the stars had Annette called just at that early hour in the morning--Annette, jealous, miserable, ill-tempered, envious, full of suspicions, and delighting in making misery for others as well as herself. Then, unfortunately, Mrs. Bloommaert was ill; and Annette, unrestrained by her presence, while Sappha’s sympathies had been called on all night long and her temper unconsciously frayed and irritated by her inability to prevent her mother’s suffering. Oh, every trivial thing had been against her, even to the small event of her going to the back parlour after breakfast! For had she remained, as was her usual custom, in front of the house, she would have seen Annette’s interview with her father, and been prepared for whatever she might say.
All these considerations gave a sort of fatality to her quarrel with Leonard, but they did not induce any kinder feeling towards Annette. She regarded her, if not as the author, at least as the tool and messenger, of evil; and Annette was quickly made to feel her position. Of course she was angered by it. And Annette was easily made angry at this time, for Achille had never been so provoking and unmanageable. In spite of her complaints, he had lately spent all his days with De Singeron, who was now on the point of sailing for France; and the episode of Leonard’s duel had been specially aggravating, because she had not been taken into confidence concerning it. And with that singular obtuseness common to selfish people, she considered Mrs. Bloommaert’s coolness and Sappha’s constant refusals to see her as a quite uncalled-for show of offence. She told herself she had only repeated what every one was saying, and that if Sappha had any sense of what was proper and respectable she would have been grateful for her candour. “People are always asking to be told the truth,” she complained, “and then when you put yourself out of the way to tell it, they are sure to be angry at you.”
When three weeks had passed in this uncomfortable manner, Annette began seriously to miss her accustomed sources of that familiar friendship which admits of confidence and some showing of individuality. She awoke one morning with a sense of isolation and of not being properly loved and cared for; that was too intolerable to be endured longer, and taking little Jonaca with her as a kind of peacemaker, she called on her aunt and Sappha. As the carriage drew up at the Bloommaert house she saw Sappha rise, and when she entered the parlour only Mrs. Bloommaert was present.
“Good-morning, aunt Carlita! I have brought Jonaca to see you.”
Mrs. Bloommaert kissed the babe, and said she “looked well,” and then resumed her sewing.
“Where is Sappha, aunt?”
“She is in her room. She is not well, and I cannot disturb her.”
“Oh, indeed, aunt, I saw her as I passed the window. She need not run away from me.”
“Has Sappha run away from you? Why has she done that?”
“I suppose because I told her some things about Leonard Murray. It was right for her to know them; but I have no doubt, now that Leonard has run away, she blames me for all his faults.”
“Leonard has not run away, and it is very wrong and very spiteful in you to make such remarks.”
“Nobody knows where he is, and he has left New York. What do you call that, aunt?”
“I call it minding his own affairs, and as for saying no one knows where he is, that is a lie. Because he did not tell Annette St. Ange where he was going, is that proof that he has told no one? Indeed, Annette, if you can believe it, there are a few people of consequence in New York beside yourself--and Mr. St. Ange.”
“Well, then, you need not be angry, aunt. And it is not kind nor yet religious to call what I say ‘a lie.’ No one ever used such a word to me before.”
“You forget. Often I have heard your grandmother say the same thing.”
“She was more polite than to say ‘a lie’; she might doubt what I told her, though always afterwards she found out I was right.”
“Indeed, Annette, you must excuse me from discussing your perfections this morning. I am busy. Sappha is sick.”
“I am going upstairs to see her, aunt.”
“You are not, Annette. You have hurt her sufficiently. I will not allow you to go and tell her that Leonard has ‘run away,’ for instance. And I dare say you have plenty of such sharp speeches ready.”
“I have not--I have only----”
“If they are not ready, ’tis no matter. They spring up to your thoughts. I ask you to excuse me this morning, for I have many things to attend to.”
“Very well. You have hardly noticed little Jonaca, and you have really told me to go away. I think you have behaved in a very rude and unkind manner. You can say to Sappha I am sorry for her. If she will remember I told her often that Leonard Murray was not at all sincere. I don’t think he ever loved Sappha well enough to wish to marry her.”
“Good-morning, Annette!” And with these words Annette found herself alone. She immediately drove to her grandmother’s. She felt sure of appreciation there. And madame was delighted to see her and the child. She took the little one in her arms and held it to her breast with a soft cradling motion that soon put it to sleep, and then she laid it tenderly down among the pillows on the sofa.
“So sweet, so pretty is she!” sighed madame. “I wonder if it is possible that I was ever like to her!”
“Once I too was so sweet! so pretty! so loved and happy! but now--now----”
“Well then, now, you are also sweet and pretty and loved and happy.”
“Oh, no, I am not, grandmother. Every one is cross with me, every one seems to hate me--except you.”
“Hush! hush! What you are saying is not true. It is unlucky to put into words such thoughts.”
“I have just been at aunt Carlita’s, and she hardly noticed Jonaca, and told me she was busy, and I must excuse her.”
“Where was Sappha?”
“Aunt says she is sick. She would not let me see her.”
“Well, then, Sappha looks ill--I have noticed it.”
“She is fretting about Leonard. You know he was really made to fight that duel. I think Achille made him fight it, and now he has run away from New York. I suppose he did not like to meet his acquaintances.”
At this point Annette suddenly stopped speaking, being admonished thereto by her grandmother’s rising anger. The old lady was regarding her with an expression Annette seldom saw on her face, but which was one she did not care to neglect.
“Have you said all the wickedness in your heart, Annette?” she asked sternly. “You know that false, false, false! are all your words. The truth I had from Achille--the whole truth--and Leonard has not run away; why then should he run away? Your uncle Gerardus tells me that very wisely and very honourably he behaved. Also, I heard from him about the affair in New Orleans. That, then, was a duel to be proud of.”
“In New Orleans? What affair in New Orleans, grandmother? I never heard of that.”
“Achille can tell you. Ask him.”
“He has not told me, and he knows. You see then, how much he trusts me, grandmother. I will not ask him. You tell me, grandmother.”
“No, I will not tell you what he has kept from you. Good reasons he may have, of which I know nothing.”
“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.
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!”
