“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.”