“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!”
CHAPTER TEN
_The Star of Peace_
The one idea of New York, now that peace was assured, was renovation and reconstruction. Every one was busy. The war was a dead issue, commerce was a living one. The passion for trading and building took the place of the military passion, and the happy sounds of labour and traffic superseded those of the cannon and the drum.
The preservation of the city had been for four years the dominant care of its inhabitants; now that it was safe they turned with a vehement spirit of industry to building up trade and commerce in every direction. It was under these auspices a joyful city. There was less dancing and dining, but there was a growing prosperity and content, for all had some business or handicraft to pursue, and all were full of hope and energy.
And the spirit of reconstruction was as potent in women as in men, though their arena for its exercise was more restricted. Mrs. Bloommaert began at once to talk of new carpets and curtains, and of a complete refurnishing of the principal rooms of the house. And as the spring came on every dwelling on the Bowling Green caught this fever of improvement; and first one and then another displayed to passers-by their fresh paint and their new lace draperies. It was a sign of some consequence, for it typified the strength of that hope and energy which embraced domestic comforts and elegancies as part and parcel of their civic prosperity.
In all the changes made in the Bloommaert house Sappha felt, or at least affected to feel, a sufficient interest. She could not shadow her mother’s busy pleasure by any evident want of sympathy, yet it was sometimes difficult to forget sufficiently her offended lover. Her soul--that strange, fluttering mystery--had lost its life’s dominant, the other soul to which it had learned to refer every thought and desire; and there was now silence or discord where once there had been sweetest melody. Her suffering, however, was no longer a storm, it was rather a still, hopeless rain, an unimpassioned grief that seldom found the natural outlet of tears. But these constant fires of repression and self-immolation were sacramental as well as sacrificial. They were strong with absolution also; and thus made calm and sure by much sorrow and by one love, she gradually came out of trouble with a spirit tempered as by fire; having lost nothing in the furnace but the dross of her nobler qualities.
She rarely heard of Leonard. She knew that he was in New Orleans, and attached to the staff of General Jackson; and so, in the final struggle, doing his duty to his country. But she never forgot the fact that he ought to have been in his native city. “It is my fault, all my fault. No wonder Leonard cannot forgive me,” she said when Mrs. Bloommaert blamed his absence during the darkest days New York had known.
The news of the victory at New Orleans followed closely on the news of peace. It was brought to the Bloommaert household by Achille, who received it with a letter from Mr. Edward Livingston. “Our friend Leonard Murray was wounded in the right arm,” he added; “rather a bad sword cut, but he is with the Livingstons, and has every possible care and attention.”
Annette came in later, and, unaware of her husband’s visit, made a great deal more of Leonard’s wound than Achille had done. She “hoped it would not be necessary to resort to amputation--a right arm was so convenient, not to say necessary. And he got it just for interfering,” she continued. “An English officer had struck down a man carrying the flag, and Leonard caught the flag as it was falling, and then of course the Englishman fell upon Leonard. Leonard always was so interfering--I mean so ready to do every one’s duty for them. You see it was not his place to take care of the flag; so he got hurt taking care of it. Grandfather de Vries always told me never to volunteer, and never to interfere. If a person does his own work and duty in this world, it is all that can be expected of him. Poor Leonard!”
“Oh!” said Sappha, “I think you may keep your pity, Annette, for these poor creatures who never volunteer and never interfere. Suppose every one had followed your grandfather’s advice, where would America be now?”
“I do not know. It is not my place to look after America,” answered Annette.
“I will tell you then--it would be under the feet of England.”
“Grandfather de Vries often says there were very good times when the English were here----”
“Come, come, Annette,” interrupted Mrs. Bloommaert, “you are only talking nonsense. When do you move into your new house?”
“Next month. Achille is delightfully considerate. All my rooms are furnished in blue, because he thinks blue so becoming to me; and he takes my advice entirely about the rest. We shall have the most elegant dwelling in the city; and I am glad this dreadful war is over. Now I can get the carpets I desire.”
“Did Mrs. Livingston say anything about the condition of New Orleans?” asked Mrs. Bloommaert.
“I did not read her letter. Achille desired me to do so, but I have honour. I would not read Mrs. Livingston’s letter. I do not see why she should write to my husband. I do not write to Mr. Livingston.”
“She is an old friend of Achille’s. Mr. Livingston is much too busy to write letters. Perhaps she thought Leonard Murray had friends in New York who would be glad to hear that he was well cared for.”
“Do you believe that Leonard Murray yet remembers us? I do not. We were all so kind to the young man, and Achille stood by him when no one else would. Oh, you need not leave the room, Sappha! I was just going to praise Leonard a little.”
But Sappha did leave the room, and Mrs. Bloommaert said with some temper:
“You have done mischief enough, Annette; why can you not let Leonard alone? You are too unkind to Sappha.”
“Oh, then, aunt, I think it is Sappha who is truly cruel to me. Because she will not come to our house, I shall have to remove to that ugly Mowatt place. I hate it. All the pretty furniture in the world will not make it endurable; and if Sappha will not visit us there, I know not what Achille will say or do. To be driven from house to house for Sappha’s temper is not a pleasant or a reasonable thing.”
“Before Sappha’s temper, there was your own temper, Annette; and I am sure you need not expect Sappha to visit you in your new home unless you also expect Leonard.”
“I suppose I shall have to write to Leonard, and tell him the trouble I am in. I think he would come back and get Sappha to forgive me properly, if I ask him. He was always very fond of me.”
“If you write to Leonard Murray one word about Sapphira Bloommaert I will never speak to you again, Annette. You may depend upon that! How can you be so malicious?”
“Malicious! You will misunderstand me, aunt Carlita. I thought perhaps if I wrote and told Leonard how angry Sappha was, and how Achille had nearly quarrelled with me about Sappha, he might come back to New York. And I am sure any one can see that Sappha is breaking her heart about his desertion of her.”