“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!”