a hot, suffocating day, and every hour of it had indicated a fierce, and
still more fierce, gathering of the combatants. Hellish cries, and
shouts to the beating of drums, and the wild chanting of the Obeah
priests had filled the daylight with unspeakable terrors. But when the
sun sank, suddenly a preternatural calm followed. Mysterious lights were
seen in the thick woods, howlings and cries, horrible and inhuman, came
out of its dense darkness. Abominable sacrifices were being offered to
the demon they worshipped, and we knew that as soon as these rites were
over indiscriminate slaughter and devilish cruelties would begin. My
mother had my little sister in her arms, and I went with her through the
forest to the seaside. She reached our meeting place by one exit, I by
another; for we were suspiciously watched, and durst not leave the house
in a body. My father and my two eldest brothers were to join us by
different routes.
“That awful walk! That enchanted walk through the hot, thick forest! I
shall never forget it in this life or the next--I shall never forget it!
Even the insects were voiceless, and the huge serpents lay prone in
spellbound stillness. We had not reached the sea before a terrific
thunder storm broke over us. Then the glare and gloom made each other
more awful; the black sky was torn by such lightning as you have no
conception of; and in the midst of natural terrors no one can describe
the blacks held a carnival of outrage and death in every conceivable
form of hellish cruelty that Obeah could devise.
“Nearly dead with fatigue and fright my mother reached the little cove
where the ship was to meet us, and there we waited in an agony of terror
for the arrival of my father and brothers. They came not. And if the
ship was noticed lying near we should be discovered. I walked back as
far as I durst, looking for any trace of them. My mother lay upon the
sand praying. My little sister slept at her side. In that hour childhood
left me forever. In that hour I learned how much one may suffer, and yet
not die. Daylight began to appear, and the ship was about half a mile
from the land. Then I called,--not with the voice I am now using,--but
with some far mightier force, ‘_Father! Father!_’ And at that moment he
appeared, pushing his way through the green tangle. And his face was
whiter than death, because it was full of horror and agony, which the
face of death very rarely is.
“He could not speak. He made motions to me to signal the ship, which I
instantly did. It was not many minutes till we saw our signal answered
and a little boat coming quickly toward us. But my father quivered with
anxiety, and he said, afterwards, they were the most awful moments of
his existence. For he knew there was a party of negroes in pursuit, and,
indeed, we were just getting into the boat when we heard them crashing
through the underwood. My mother had said only two words, ‘August!
Victor!’ and my father had answered only, ‘Dead.’ Then the sailors
pulled with all their strength to escape the bullets that followed us;
but one struck and killed the babe in my mother’s arms, and another
fatally wounded a man at one of the oars. He fell, and my father took
his place.”
Annette was watching St. Ange like one fascinated; her blue eyes were
wide open, her face terror-stricken, her little form all a-tremble.
Madame had covered her face, but when Achille ceased speaking she
stretched out her hand to him, and for a few moments there was an
intense passionful silence. Madame broke it.
“You reached New Orleans safely?”
“It was a hard journey. The captain had taken on a great number of the
fugitives, and he waited around the island for two days, rescuing many
more who had trusted to the mercy of the sea rather than dare the bloody
riot on land; so that we were much overcrowded and soon suffering for
food and water. Fever followed, and when we reached New Orleans we were
in a pitiable plight. My mother did not recover from this experience.
She never asked further about my brothers, and my father would not have
told her the truth, if she had asked. ‘They are dead! They died like
heroes!’ That was all my father ever told me. It was all that I wished
to know.
“On Bayou Têche we bought a plantation, and began again the cultivation
of the cane, but mother died visibly, day by day, and within six weeks
we buried her under the waving banners of the grey moss that hung so
mournfully from the live oaks, that January morning. As to my father, he
was never again the same. He had been a very joyous man, but he smiled
no more, and he fretted continually over the loss of his family and his
beautiful home in Hayti. For some years we were all in all to each
other, and he laboured hard to bring our new plantation into a fine
condition. Then he, too, left me, and the place was hateful in my sight.
I wished to escape forever from the sight of negroes. I feared them,
even in my sleep. Had not those who had shared our food, and games, and
constant society slain with fiendish delight my poor brothers and my
only sister? I was acquainted with Mr. Edward Livingston, a lawyer in
New Orleans, and who himself had married a beautiful refugee from the
great Haitian insurrection, and he advised me not to sell my plantation,
as in view of the war I could not get its value. I would not listen to
him--a simpler life with the black cloud removed seemed to me the only
thing I desired. But no, I have not here escaped it. What shall I do?”
“The blacks in New York are mostly free, and they are comparatively few
in number,” said madame.
“Few in number--that is some security. But now, I must tell you, that
this summer, on the very night that there was a great volcanic eruption
from the burning heart of St. Vincent, there was another massacre. Amid
the roaring darkness, the intolerable heat, the rain of ashes, the
stench of sulphur, and the stygian horror of the heavens and the earth,
the blacks,
[Illustration: “THE CAPTAIN ... WAITED AROUND THE ISLAND FOR TWO DAYS,
RESCUING MANY MORE WHO HAD TRUSTED TO THE MERCY OF THE SEA.”]
made frantic by their terror, and led by the priests of Obeah, fell upon
the whites indiscriminately. They fled to the ships in the harbour--to
the sea--anywhere, anywhere, from those huge animal natures whose eyes
were flaming with rage, and whose souls were without pity. Nearly one
hundred of these fugitives finally reached Norfolk and Virginia. Some
had been warned either by their own souls, or by friends, and had money
and jewels with them; others were quite destitute; many were sick, and
their condition was pitiable. All desired to reach the French
settlements in Louisiana, but transit by water was most uncertain,
nearly all the usual shipping being employed in the more congenial
business of privateering. Then, in the midst of their distress, comes
into port one day Captain Christopher Bloommaert. He had with him a fine
English frigate, the prize of his skill and valour. And when he
understood the case of these poor souls, he called his men together and
proposed to them the God-like voyage of carrying the miserables to New
Orleans. ‘’Tis but a little way out of our purposed course,’ he said,
‘and who knows on what tack good fortune may meet us?’ And the men
answered with a shout of ready assent, and so they finally reached New
Orleans. I saw them land. Many of them were old friends of my family,
and I heard such stories from their lips as make men mad. One old
planter, who had money with him, bought my estate, and took those with
him to its shelter who had neither money nor friends. Their kindness to
each other was wonderful. As for me, I hastened away from scenes that
had cast a pall over all my life. Yet I forget not; to forget would be
an impossible mercy.”
Then madame talked comfortably to the young man, and after a while tea
was brought in, and Annette, grave and silent for once, made it; and
quietly watched, and listened, and served. St. Ange liked her better in
this mood. The other Annette, with her little coquetries, had not
pleased him half so well. When he left she understood that she had
gained favour in his eyes; he kissed her hand with an enthralling grace
and respect--or, at least, Annette found it so. And that night, though
she felt certain Leonard Murray was singing the new songs with Sappha,
she told herself that she “did not care if he was. Achille was twice as
interesting; he was, indeed, a romantic, a tragic hero--and very nearly
a lover. And he was so captivating, so unusually handsome!” She went
over the rather long list of young men with whom she was friendly, and
positively assured herself that all were commonplace compared with this
wonderful Achille. And, to be sure, his small but elegant figure, his
pale passionate face, set in those straight black locks, his caressing
voice, his subtle smile, his gentle pressure of the hand--all these
charms were not the prominent ones of the practical, business-like young
men with whom she was most familiar.
After St. Ange’s departure madame sat silent for some time, and Annette
watched her with a strange speculation in her mind--did people really
keep their emotions fresh when they were three-score and ten years old?
Her grandmother had seemed to feel all that she had felt. Her hands, her
feet, her whole figure had revealed strong sensation, her eyes been
tender with sympathy and keen with anger; her interest had never
flagged. In passionate sensibility had twenty years no superiority over
seventy years? Patience, Annette! Time will tell you the secret. Oh, the
soul keeps its youth!
She considered this question, however, until it wearied her, and then
she asked abruptly: “Grandmother, of what are you dreaming?”
“Mr. St. Ange. I was recalling the day on which his grandfather carried
off to France pretty Gertrude Bergen. She went to France and died in
Haiti, and now her grandson is driven back by events he cannot control
to New York.”
“Where he will probably marry some other pretty Dutch maiden.”
“And small heed we take of such things; we even count them of chance;
yet, how often that which flowers to-day grows from very old roots.”
“Grandmother, I want two new dresses. Can I have them?”
“Stuffs of every kind are very dear, Annette.”
“Only two, grandmother.”
“And Madame Lafarge’s charges for making dresses are extravagant--the
making is the worst.”
“It has to be done, grandmother.”
“Yes--but if you will turn to your Bible, Annette, you will find that
the woman whose ‘price was above rubies’ made her own dresses.”[1]
“Indeed, grandmother, you need only glance at any picture of a Bible
woman to see that. Dresses without shape, without style--and as for _the
fit_!” And Annette could only explain the enormity of the fit by
throwing up her hands in expressive silence.
“If you get the dresses, then a new bonnet will be wanted.”
“Yes, a bonnet would be a necessity; also some of those sweet furs that
come from South America--so soft and grey are they. Oh, the ugliest
woman looks pretty in them!”
“You are extortionate, Annette.”
“Grandmother, I have not yet asked for a grand piano.”
Then madame laughed. And Annette laid her soft cheek against madame and
kissed her good-night. But though she walked delicately and almost on
tip-toes to her own room, there was an air of triumph in the poise of
her pretty head. She set the candle down by the mirror and looked
complaisantly at herself.
“I shall get what I want,” she said softly. “I always do.”
CHAPTER FIVE
_A Chain of Causes_
It had been a stirring summer in New York, and the year was now closing
with a remarkable month. For October had been signalised by two naval
victories, the British war frigate _Frolic_ having been captured by
Captain Jones, and the _Macedonian_ by Commodore Decatur, and as the
successful commanders were expected in New York during December, great
preparations were being made for their entertainment, the more so, as
Captain Hull, the hero of the _Constitution_, would also be present.
Considering these things, Annette’s request for two new gowns was a
modest one; yet so many women were just then acquiring new gowns that it
was with difficulty she succeeded in getting hers ready for Christmas
Day. Achille had helped her to select her ball dress, and it was so
lovely that she felt no fear of being on this occasion eclipsed by
Sappha’s gayer garments. That Achille had been consulted in its
selection need not imply more than a rather intimate friendship; for the
young man had become a familiar friend of a great many families. His sad
history, his unusual beauty and grace, his many social accomplishments,
and his faultless manners and dress, had given him almost by acclamation
a very prominent position in the fashionable circles of New York. The
Dutch claimed him on his mother’s side, the French on his father’s, and
New Yorkers on the ground that he had of choice elected to become a
citizen of New York. No gathering was considered complete without his
presence; the most select clubs sought his association; and among those
men who loved fine horses and skilful fencing, he was acknowledged an
incomparable judge and master.
But though he accepted this homage, he did not seek it; nor did it seem
to afford him much pleasure. Those most familiar with his habits knew
that he very much preferred the society of the Friendly Club, which met
in the parlour of Dr. Smith’s house in Pine Street. Here, with young
Washington Irving, Charles Brockden Brown, and other literary and
learned men, he passed the hours that pleased him most. Nor was this his
only social peculiarity. He formed a close friendship with the exile
Aguste Louis de Singeron, the most famous pastry cook and confectioner
in New York; also an ex-courtier and ex-warrior of Louis the Sixteenth:
a little man of the most undaunted spirit, chivalrous and courteous, at
once the most polite and the most passionate of men. Every day St. Ange
might be found sitting in De Singeron’s neat little shop on William
Street. Sometimes their conversation seemed to be sufficient for their
entertainment; sometimes a chess board lay on the narrow counter between
them. Fine ladies passed in and out, but St. Ange was never disturbed
by their advent; and if a game was in progress no smiling invitation
allured him to leave it unfinished. It will be seen then, that in spite
of his gentle air and suave manners, he had a will sufficiently strong
to insure him his own way.
His intercourse with the two Bloommaert families was, however, the most
important of all his life’s engagements. With other families he had
frequent, but casual and intermittent, meetings; he was at the close of
this year in one or other of the Bloommaert households every day. With
Madame Jonaca he had formed a most affectionate alliance; he asked her
counsel, and followed it; he told her all the pleasant news of that
society which she still loved; he took her frequently out in his sleigh
that she might see any unusual parade of the troops or militia; he
brought her all the newspapers, and delighted himself and madame--as
well as Annette--by reading aloud the numerous passages he had marked in
them, as likely to interest both women. He came in when he was cold, to
be warmed in Madame’s cosey parlour; when he was lonely he went there
for company; when he was sad for comfort.
In the Bowling Green home he had a footing quite as sure, though on a
different foundation. In this family it was the judge who favoured him
above all others. If St. Ange came into the room his face brightened, he
put aside the paper or pamphlet he was reading, and turned to the young
man for conversation. He went with him to Dr. Smith’s Club, and said it
was the only sensible club he had ever visited. If the day was mild the
two men took a brisk walk together on the Battery, and talked politics
or science, and sometimes law, if the judge was engaged with any very
interesting case; and if all these sources of intercourse were too few,
out came the chess board, and in silent moves and monosyllabled
conversation the evening passed away.
His relations with Mrs. Bloommaert and Sappha were equally friendly and
familiar. Very early in his visits to the Bowling Green house he had
assured himself that the lovely Sappha had no heart to give--that she
was entirely devoted to his friend Leonard Murray. This conviction had
at first given him a pang, for not only Sappha’s beauty, but her
beautiful disposition, had moved him to an admiration he had never
before felt; and he had told himself that to win such an angel for his
wife, with the entry into such a perfect home, and the alliance of
characters so lovable as Judge Bloommaert and Sappha’s mother, would be
as much of heaven on earth as any man could hope to receive.
For a week he had nursed this charming illusion, then something
happened--a look, a movement, a passing touch or whisper--one, or all of
these things opened his eyes; he felt convinced that Leonard had some
certain right that he could not honourably infringe upon--and honour was
the first, the dominating, sentiment that moved Achille’s thoughts and
words and deeds. All was _not_ fair in love to Achille St. Ange; so he
deliberately put down his love for Sappha; denied it perpetually to his
craving heart; and taught himself to look upon her as his friend’s
beloved and his own friend and sister.
As a general thing Leonard understood this, though there had never been
a word uttered between them regarding Sappha. Leonard was immersed in
business of various kinds, but he quickly satisfied himself that he had
nothing to fear from St. Ange’s admiration of Sappha. The three were
often together in the evenings, and nearly as often Annette made the
fourth. Music, conversation, occasionally an informal cotillion, reading
aloud, or recitations passed the happy hours, while the judge listened,
watched, corrected, or advised, and Mrs. Bloommaert moved through all
their entertainments, smiling the blessing of innocent happiness upon
them.
The first shadow on this charming companionship fell about Christmas. It
came in the form of a suspicion, not of Sappha’s love, but of the
judge’s simple good-will. He had never pretended any friendship for
Leonard, but during the past month he had treated him with a civility
that left no cause for offence. Suddenly one evening Leonard became
possessed with the idea that the judge’s demonstrative liking for St.
Ange was not as real as it appeared; that, in fact, it was a liking
affected in a great measure for the purpose of making him feel the real
indifference of his own treatment. He could hardly tell what
circumstance had evoked this suspicion, but when he began to ponder the
idea it grew to undreamed of proportions. He sat up nearly all night,
busy with this profitless and miserable consideration, and memory
brought him one proof after another to pillar his suspicion. And the
conclusion of the matter was that Sappha’s father wished her to marry
St. Ange, and that in such case, even if the war was over before three
years had passed, it would be in the power of the judge to forbid their
marriage, as Sappha would not be of age for nearly three years. Then,
when Sappha was of age, would she marry him without her father’s
consent? It was doubtful. Then again, might not three years more of
antagonism, showing itself in every little daily household event or
pleasure, wear out the tenderest, truest love? In this restless,
suspicious temper he told himself that it was almost certain to do so.
The fate of love is, that it always sees too little or too much. All
true lovers have this madness, this enchantment, where the reason seems
bound. For in love there is no prudence that can help a man, no reason
that can assist him, and none that he would have. He prefers the madness
which convinces him his love is more than common love. Let vulgar love
know moderation, he loves out of all reason, and finds his wretchedness
pleasing.
Now jealousy is only good when she torments herself, and Leonard,
sitting up and losing sleep to indulge her, deserved the restless pain
which he evoked. It troubled him so effectually the following day that
he found it difficult to perform the work he had so enthusiastically
undertaken--that of assisting in the decorations at the City Hall for
the great naval ball to be given to the officers of the war frigates in
New York on New Year’s Eve. He was impatient for night to come; then he
would go to Judge Bloommaert’s again and take good heed of every look
and word, and so resolve the question that so much troubled him.
Well, we generally get the evil we expect, and so Leonard was not
disappointed. There had been, as it happened, a slightly ruffled
conversation during the evening meal, about an invitation just received
from St. Ange. He had taken a box at the Park Theatre, and Madame
Bloommaert had promised to go under his escort to see the final
representation of the capture of the _Macedonian_ by the _United
States_. There was to be also a patriotic sketch and a farce called
“Right and Wrong.” The polite little note added that there was plenty of
room in the box for the judge and for Mrs. and Miss Bloommaert, and
begged them to accept its convenience.
The judge said “he would not go.” He furthermore said, “he did not like
his mother being seen so much with that young Frenchman; people would
make remarks about it.”
“Gerardus!”
“Just as if she had no son, or grandson, to take her to see things.”
“You never do take her anywhere but to church, Gerardus; and as for
Peter, I do not suppose he ever remembers her; he trusts to you and you
to him. I am sure St. Ange has given her a great deal of pleasure that
she would not have had from you or Peter.”
“I do not approve of Christmas kept in theatres and such places. What
would your father say, Carlita, about going to the theatre on Christmas
night? We have always kept Christmas at church, and as a religious
festival.”
“This is a different Christmas. It is a patriotic festival, as well as a
religious one, this year. Mother naturally wants to see the sailors and
the battle transparency, and hear the songs and feel the throbbing of
the great heart of the city. You ought to go with her.”
“Who taught you to say ‘ought’ to me, Carlita?”
“My heart and my conscience.”
“Well, if you get behind your conscience, I am dumb. Go with mother--if
you wish.”
“No. Mr. St. Ange goes with her. You must go with Sappha and I, or----”
“I am busy. I cannot go.”
“I am sorry. I must ask Leonard Murray then.”
“Oh, what diplomats women are! I suppose I must go, but I do wish Mr.
St. Ange would be less attentive to my family.”
“He may yet be more so. Annette considers herself as----”
“There, there, wife! Don’t say it, and then you will not have to unsay
it.”
This refusal to listen to Annette’s considerations put a stop to the
discussion. The judge took a book of travels and affected to be lost in
its matter and marvels, and Mrs. Bloommaert found it impossible to get
him to resume the conversation and finish it with more satisfactory
decision. Finally she said: “I do wish, Gerardus, you would talk to us a
little. There are many things I want to ask you about.”
“Not to-night, Carlita.”
“Of course we are going to the naval ball, and preparations specially
for it must be made. Why do you not answer me, Gerardus?”
“My dear Carlita, no husband ever repented of having held his tongue. I
am in no mood to talk to-night.”
“You promised Sappha that pearl necklace.”
“Hum-m-m!”
“And I cannot lend her mine, as I shall want to wear it.”
There was no answer, but then silence answers much; and Mrs. Bloommaert,
considering her husband’s face, felt that she had begun to win. He was
evidently pondering the position, for he was not reading. During this
critical pause Leonard Murray entered. He was aware at once of the
constrained atmosphere, and with the egotism of jealousy he attributed
it to his sudden appearance. For once he was really _de trop_. He
interrupted an important decision, and Mrs. Bloommaert was annoyed.
Under cover of his entry, and the slight commotion it caused, the judge
resumed his reading. “I must ask your indulgence, Mr. Murray,” he said
politely, “but I am just now accompanying Mr. James Bruce in search of
the sources of the Nile; and it is not easy to live between Egypt and
the Bowling Green.”