It was while these Battery defences were being constructed that the city gave one of its usual great entertainments to Captain Lawrence, who in the _Hornet_ had captured the British brig-of-war _Peacock_. Two circumstances made this dinner one that brought the war very close to the people of New York--the first was the fact that Lawrence was a citizen of New York; the second was the marching of the one hundred and six survivors of the sunk ship _Peacock_ through all the principal streets of the city to their prison in Fort Gansevoort, thus affording the populace a very visible proof of victory. It was, however, noticeable that few of American parentage offered any insult to the depressed-looking sailors, while many men of the first consideration raised their hats as the unhappy line passed. Leonard and Achille were among this number. “Honour to the vanquished!” said Achille with emotion; and Leonard, remembering who had taught them that sentiment, repeated it. And this courtesy was the more emphatic, because at that very time a large number of British war vessels had entered the Chesapeake and Delaware bays.
But did war ever stop marriage? On the contrary, it seems to give a strange vitality and hurry to love-making; and in the midst of all its alarms Annette’s wedding preparations went blithely on to their determined crisis. On the seventh of June Annette, being of age, became mistress of her estate, and on the seventeenth of the same month she married Achille St. Ange.
It was an exquisite summer day, and the old house in Nassau Street had never looked more picturesquely homelike. Every rose tree was in bloom, and doors and windows were all open to admit the scented air. For the company far exceeded the capacity of the parlours; it filled the hall, the stairway, and the piazzas, and even in the garden happy young people were wandering among the syringa bushes and the red and white roses. And presently there was a little wistful, eager stir, and Annette, followed by her grandmother and Sappha, came softly down the stairway. Then the girls sitting there rose and stood on each side of the descent, and Achille hastened to meet the snow-white figure, and ere she touched the floor took her hands in his own. And never had Annette looked so fair and so lovely; from the rose in her hair to the satin sandals on her feet she was in lustrous white. The faint colour of her cheeks, the deeper red of her mouth, and the heavenly blue of her eyes were but the tender tints that gave life to the bright, slow-moving, bride-like beauty.
Many a time Annette had consciously assumed a pensive, thoughtful expression, for Achille admired her most in such moods; but there was no necessity for the pretence this day. Those who had any penetrative observation might see beyond the light of her sweet smiles and glances the shadowed eyes that both remember and foresee. She was not a girl at all inclined to reflection, but feeling and intuition go where reason cannot enter, and Annette felt that this very day was the meridian day of her life. Having gained this, the height of her hope and desire, she wondered--even against her will--“if she must henceforward tread the downward slope until the evening shades of life found her?” Was this day to give a future to her past and change girlhood’s simple hopes into the richer joys of wifehood? Or would this new self that had just taken possession of her bring kisses wet with tears, waste remembrance of vanished hours, and forlorn sighs for the days eventual? Not these words, but the sentiment of them, insinuated itself into the bride’s consciousness. It was uncalled, and unwelcome; and Annette, frowning at the intrusion, dismissed it. She had always found “change” meant something better, and that there was ever a living joy, ready to take the place of a dead one, even as--
“The last cowslip in the fields we see On the same day with the first corn poppy.”
Fortunately, after any great domestic vicissitude, there is generally a suspension of everything unusual. The family in which it has occurred refuse to be drawn into further changes. They instinctively feel that marriage, as well as death, makes life barren, and they say in many different ways, “It is enough. Leave things as they are; at least, for a little while.”
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?”