Part 22

She made one effort to remain at home; she went to her grandmother and entreated that she would interfere for her. “If you desired me to stay with you, dear grandmother,” she said, “my father would permit it; I am sure he would.”

“So then, dear one, I must not ask him. Thy mother, what of her? Very much disappointed she would be. To see the wonderful sights of London alone, what pleasure would she find in that? And the shopping, and the visiting without thee, would not be the same. Oh, no, it is in thy delight the good mother will find delight; and in the admiration thou wilt receive will be her honour. Very much alone she will be without thee, for, as to thy father, the affairs of his commission will occupy him. Shall I tell thee thy duty? It is to put away all regret from thy thoughts; to give thyself to the honour and pleasure of thy good parents; to add thy smiles, thy hopes, thy glad young spirits to theirs. This is a great honour for thy father, a great pleasure for thy mother, and if Sapphira Bloommaert I know, I think she will not make it less. No, she will smile, and then ten times greater it will be.”

And at these words Sappha smiled, and promised to go willingly and do all she could to increase the joy of those with her.

“And that will not only be right, but wise,” answered the old lady; “for in the way of duty it is that we meet blessing and happiness.”

From this interview Sappha went home determined to lift cheerfully the burden in her way; and lo! it became lighter than a grasshopper. She found that as soon as she put herself out of consideration she caught the spirit of the change; she became interested in all the details of their journey, and finally almost enthusiastic. Then her father’s pride and happy anticipations were hers, as were also her mother’s manifold little plans for her own desires and her promises for the desires of others. They lingered over their meals, and they sat hours later at night, talking about the places they were to visit, the people they were to see, and the beautiful things they were to purchase. They had long lists of china, and silk, and lace, to which they were constantly adding; for all their relatives and friends and acquaintances had commissions for them to fill.

In these busy, happy days Sappha won back all the gladsomeness she had lost. She put Leonard, with a loving thought, into the background of her hopes. She gave herself without one grudging thought to the joy set before her. And with this happy spirit came back the radiancy of her beauty; her step regained its elasticity, her cheeks their brilliant colour, her eyes their tender glow, her smiles their love-making persuasion. And every one but madame said it was because she was going to Europe and expected to be presented at Court. Even the judge smiled a little sarcastically, and said to himself, “Leonard Murray has been forgotten.” Mrs. Bloommaert did not err quite so far; but realising the charm of all the new expectations before her, she gave them the credit of changing Sappha’s dejection to cheerfulness. It was only madame who knew the secret of the happy transition; she understood how the noblest feelings had crushed down the selfish ones and restored the almost despairing girl, by showing her life with a larger horizon than her own personality.

So affairs went on in the Bowling Green house until only ten days remained for the last preparations. And these days were expected to be full of visits and farewell hospitalities; for a voyage to Europe was at that time an undertaking surrounded by uncertainty, and even danger, and people went to the Bloommaerts to bid them good-bye, and then as they spoke of the subject shook doubtful heads and wondered if they would ever see them again.

One day about a week before they were to leave Sappha put on her hat to go to Nassau Street. There had been many callers, and she was excited and a little weary, but Mrs. Bloommaert was still more so; and Sappha entreated her to try and sleep until she returned. Having darkened the room she went away, a little depressed by the shutting out of the sunlight, the uncovered stairway, and general air of the dismantled home. But she was so beautiful that any one might have wondered what mystic elements had been combined to produce that air of pleased serenity and thoughtful happiness, which gave to her youth and loveliness a charm that mere form and colour could not impart. She was thinking of Leonard. As she went slowly from step to step she was thinking of Leonard. That day Mrs. Livingston had called, and she had talked enthusiastically about him, of his bravery in action, and his cheerfulness when suffering; and, moreover, of his return to New York. “His wound had been worse than at first appeared likely,” she said, “but her sister-in-law believed he would be able to leave New Orleans before the yellow fever season. A thing very desirable,” she added, “for there are fears of a severe epidemic this year.”

“But Mr. Murray will come north before the danger?” asked Mrs. Bloommaert.

“I am sure he will; next month early, I should say.”

Sappha was thinking of this promise, and telling herself that she would persuade her grandmother to see Leonard and say for her all she would say, if present. She had supreme confidence in her love and wisdom, and believed that if ever Leonard could be reconciled, it might well be by Madame Bloommaert’s representations. She did not trust Annette, but her grandmother could not fail! and it was the light of these words “could not fail!” that gave such singular radiance and serenity to her face and manner.

She looked into the parlour to see if her father had returned home, and then opened the front door. As she did so an eager, tender voice said “Sappha! Sappha!” and at the same moment she cried out, “Leonard! Leonard!” The four words blended as one voice; and as they did so their hands clasped, their lips met, and the two that had been so miserably two, were now one again.

They went into the parlour and sat down, hardly able to speak—too happy to speak—too sure of each other to want explanations, even to bear them, throwing the wretched episode of the quarrel behind them, caring only for a future in which they might never more miss each other for a moment. Pale with suffering and confinement, Leonard had just that air of pathos which takes a woman’s heart by storm; and Sappha felt that she had never until that moment known how dear he was to her.

Mentally she asked herself what was now to be done. She felt that the journey to England had become an impossible thing. She could not leave Leonard. She could not even speak of the coming separation. For a little while she wished the felicity of their reunion to be shadeless, cloudless, saddened by no yesterday, fearing no to-morrow. Just one hour of such love could sweeten life, why invade it with any careful thought?

All too soon the careful thought came. Leonard had heard of the intended voyage, and it had filled him with such anxiety that against all advices and persuasions he had hastened his return to New York. He was resolved that Sappha should remain with him, or else that he should go with Sappha. In either case, immediate marriage was advisable, and Sappha had now no desire to oppose his wishes.

“We can be married to-morrow, the next day, the day we leave. What is to prevent it?” he asked. She laid her hand in his for answer, and at that moment the judge entered. And as Judge Bloommaert was a man who never required two lessons on any subject, he met Leonard with great kindness and sympathy; and when the subject of an immediate marriage was named made no objections to its consideration “as soon as Mrs. Bloommaert was present.”

Then Sappha went swiftly to her mother. She knelt down by the bedside and laid her head on her mother’s breast. “Father is home,” she whispered, “and Leonard! Oh, mother, mother! Leonard has come back to me! and he wants to go with us to England—and he wants to be married before we go. Mother, dear, sweet mother! you will agree with Leonard? Yes, you will! Yes, you will—for my sake, mother.”

“Are you dreaming, Sappha? How can Leonard be here? Mrs. Livingston said a few hours ago that he was in New Orleans.”

“But he left New Orleans the same day that her letter left. He could not stay in New Orleans when he heard we were going to England. He has travelled night and day, and he is still pale with suffering. You will be sorry only to see how pale he is. We cannot be parted again; he says it will kill him—and father says we may be married if you are willing. You are willing, mother? Yes, I know you are. Say yes, dear mother, say yes, for Sappha’s sake.”

“I will dress and see Leonard as soon as possible, Sappha. And if your father is willing for you to marry at once, of course I shall agree with him. But have you considered? We sail in six days. You have no wedding dress. The house is all topsy-turvy. Not a room we can set a table in—carpets up, curtains down, glass and silver all packed away.”

“Mother, none of these things are at all necessary. It is Leonard, and not carpets and glass and silver; and—”

“Yes, yes! I know! But you must have a decent gown; a new gown, an old one is unlucky.”

“Well, then, it can be made in two or three days—we have six days, you know. Come and see Leonard. I am sure you will see how sensible he is.”

Mrs. Bloommaert smiled, rose quickly and began to dress. “Go now and look after tea. Make things as nice as you can. I will be downstairs in half an hour.”

“And then you will stand by Leonard?”

“He has not stood very well by you the last year.”

“Please do not name that—do not think of it. I have always told you it was my fault.”

“It tosses all my plans upside down, Sappha. I expected to have you with me in all my pleasures. I shall have to wander about London alone, and I shall have no lovely daughter to introduce. Oh, ’tis a great disappointment to me!”

“We shall be together, mother. It will be all the same, and you will have Leonard also.”

“My dear, Leonard will want you all the time. I know. He will grudge for any one to breathe the air of the same room with you—but if you are happy, father and I must be content without you.”

“It will not be like that, mother. You will see.”

“Yes, fathers and mothers all see. Suppose now you go and tell the women in the kitchen to get us something to eat. We shall all be more amiable if we have the teacups before us.”

The discussion, however, was amiable enough. Judge Bloommaert had not watched his daughter for a year without coming to a very clear diagnosis of the conditions that alone would give her happiness; and he had plenty of that wisdom which knows the art of turning the inevitable into the thing most desirable. The hour had come. Sappha had waited with a beautiful patience for it; he was resolved to give her its joy, fully and freely, and without any holdback.

“Carlita,” he said, as soon as mutual greetings were over, “Carlita, Leonard wishes to marry Sappha at once, and go with us to England. I think it is a good plan. What say you?”

“I think with you always, Gerardus.”

“Such hurry will only admit of a very simple wedding ceremony, but Leonard says that is what Sappha and he prefer; and as it is their marriage, they have a right of choice. Eh, Leonard?”

“As you say, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Livingston will represent my friends, and if Sappha’s nearest relatives are witnesses the company will be of the proper size. Why should we ask half of New York to gaze at the most sacred and private of all domestic events?”

“Well, then, we will let it be so. Can you arrange for such a wedding, Carlita—say on the morning of the day we leave?”

“I can do my best, Gerardus.”

“The packet sails at two o’clock in the afternoon. I suppose the marriage could take place at twelve.”

“Better say at ten o’clock, Gerardus. We shall need time to change our dresses and pack up the last things.”

“True. Then, Leonard, we will say ten o’clock next Wednesday. Is that right?”

“If Sappha and Mrs. Bloommaert say so. I suppose it cannot be Saturday or Monday?”

“Impossible,” answered Mrs. Bloommaert. “There is a wedding dress to make.”

“Sappha has plenty of pretty dresses.”

“She has not, however, a wedding dress. She cannot be married without one.”

“Then perhaps it ought to be bought to-night. There is plenty of time yet.”

“In the morning will do.”

“If it should not be ready—”

“I will attend to that,” said Mrs. Bloommaert, and her manner was not only confident, but final on the subject.

“I must go out for an hour after tea, but when I return we can talk over a few business points,” said the judge to Leonard; and the young man was so elated and happy he only smiled; he could say neither yes nor no; everything had slipped from his consciousness but the joy of being near Sappha, of seeing her face, of hearing her speak, and feeling the clasp of her hand within his own.

Then when the judge had gone Mrs. Bloommaert said to Sappha: “I have a letter to write to your grandmother; a very important letter, and I shall have to pick my thoughts, and choose my words, and that is a thing I cannot do if you and Leonard are whispering behind me. Go into the other parlour, and make your little arrangements there.”

Very willingly they obeyed, and the sight of the piano was enough to raise the spirit of melody in Leonard’s heart. “Let us sing one song together, dearest,” he said, and Sappha found the key of the locked instrument, while Leonard searched among the piled music sheets for some song fit for the happy hour.

“Love’s Maytime,” he cried. “That sounds well.” And he stooped and kissed her as she seated herself. Their heads bent toward each other, they were radiant with the most transporting love and their hearts ravished with the bliss of their reunion.

“Sing, my love, and sadden me into deeper joy,” whispered Leonard; and soft and low to the simple melody Sappha sang:

“We two will see the springtime still In days with autumn rife; When wintry winds blow bleak and chill And we near the bourne of life.

“For love is ever young and kind, And love will with us stay Till we in Life’s December find A path of endless May.” —Louis Ledoux.

Leonard caught the melody quickly, and Mrs. Bloommaert stopped her writing to listen. “Their voices are like one,” she thought. “They are happy, they may be more so, but ‘a path of endless May’ is asking a great deal; and yet, as we grow old and unbeautiful, the thought of endless life, and endless youth, and endless love, and endless May helps to make grey hair and failing strength bearable. What was it I heard Rose singing last night? Something of the same kind—some Methodist hymn about endless spring:

“There everlasting spring abides And never fading flowers.”

“Yes, everlasting spring would bring endless May, but I wish they would not now sing about it, the music interferes, I cannot write my letter, and if madame is not immediately informed of the marriage she will be offended.” Yet she did not silence the music. She understood that for the lovers the world was just then revolving in Paradise, and that music is the language of Paradise. So she erased, and wrote over, and finally finished with an apology for all her mistakes.

Very soon the judge returned, and when he had lit his pipe he called Leonard to join him; and they sat down together and talked of their intended voyage. “It is a purely business visit to England as far as I am concerned,” said the judge, “but we intend to be seen and to see; for there are many Americans in London at present, and with some of them I am familiar. May I ask, Leonard, what is taking you across the Atlantic at this time? Is Sappha entirely accountable?”

“Not quite, sir,” Leonard answered. “Sooner or later this year I must have gone to Scotland to fulfil my father’s last charge to me.” No one questioned this remark, and Leonard continued: “After the defeat at Sheriffmuir my great-grandfather found himself on the brink of ruin. His clan had virtually perished, and he had given his last sovereign to The Cause. Emigration was all that remained and he was the more eager for this outlet when he learned that his name was on the list of the proscribed chiefs, and his life in danger. He went to the Earl of Moray, who had not been ‘out,’ and sold his estate to him on these conditions: To the third generation it was to be redeemable; but if not then ransomed it might be sold, though only to a purchaser bearing the name of Murray. My father hoped to be the saviour of the place, but he died before the investments made for this purpose had grown to sufficient increase. On his deathbed he solemnly left this duty to my management; and I vowed to him to fulfil every obligation to the last tittle. I now find myself able to honour my pledge, and I am going to Scotland to do it.”

“That is right,” said the judge. “Where is this estate?”

“In the Highlands of Scotland, north of Inverness. It is a romantic country, and I expect great pleasure from the journey; especially as I hope now that Sappha may go with me; but we can decide that question when we are closer to it.”

“Certainly. You intend then to buy back the estate? Will that be of any advantage to you?”

“Not financially—just yet. But I have great faith in the future of land.”

“What will you do with it? Rent it?”

“No. The few Murrays yet remaining there would resent a stranger over them. I shall leave the oldest of the clan guardian of the place. The land will not run away. The house is built of immense blocks of granite, and may stand a thousand years. In time I shall find a profitable use for both house and land—one can always trust land.”

This subject naturally brought to discussion a home in New York, and the judge said, “As the Government House is on the point of being pulled down, I shall buy a lot on the south of the Bowling Green and build a handsome dwelling on it for Sapphira. Like you, Leonard, I have faith in land. When this part of the city ceases to be socially desirable it will become commercially valuable; and commerce pays good rentage.”

It was near midnight when all subjects growing out of this sudden change of intentions had been discussed; and the days that followed were days of hurry and happiness. But every one entered so heartily into the joyful girl’s marriage that nothing was belated or neglected, and on the evening before the desired day there was time for all to sit down and arrange the final ceremonies. It was then that Leonard put into Sappha’s hand, as he bid her good-night, the beauteous gift which is yet worn by her great-granddaughter. With a kiss and a blessing he put it into her hand, and she took it into the lighted parlour to examine. It was addressed only

“To Sapphira, Sapphires,”

and when the cover of the box was removed she discovered a necklace of those exquisite Asteria sapphires which have in the centre of their heavenly blue opalescence a star of six rays. The judge had already seen them. He said Leonard had bought them from a Creole jeweller in New Orleans, and that they had once belonged to a beautiful princess of Ceylon.

But whatever their history, never had they clasped the throat of a lovelier woman than Sapphira Bloommaert on the day of her wedding. The little company invited were gathered in the ordinary sitting-room of her father’s house, but the June sunshine flooded gloriously the homelike place; and Annette, who had been freely forgiven, had made it a bower of white roses. On the hearthstone stood the domine, and the bride’s mother and grandmother were on either side of him. Mr. and Mrs. Livingston, Mr. and Mrs. Morris, Annette and Achille, Peter and his betrothed, Josette Genaud, were the witnesses.