away? I really meant nothing unkind. If she had only remained, I was
going to tell her about Aglae Davezac, Mrs. Livingston’s lovely sister.
I dare say she consoles Leonard very well. She is not handsome, but she
has a beautiful figure, and is very witty.”
“Annette, if you will believe me, we are neither of us interested in
either Mrs. Livingston or her lovely sister. There are things nearer
home. When did you call on your grandmother? She was complaining of your
neglect lately.”
“I am just going to see her.”
“I hope you will tell her exactly what you have said here.”
“No, we shall talk about Jonaca and the new house. Good-morning, aunt!”
Annette’s visits had fallen into this kind of veiled unfriendliness. She
would have ceased coming to the Bowling Green at all if Achille’s
pointed inquiries had not forced her into a semblance of civility, for
she blamed Sappha, not only for her removal to the Mowatt house, but
also for many a passage of words between Achille and herself that were
less agreeable than they ought to have been, or would have been if
Sappha had not formed the subject of discussion. And from Annette’s
point of view, perhaps there was cause for some irritation. For a few
hasty words which Sappha refused to ignore, there had been many hasty
ones between herself and Achille; and, moreover, she did not feel the
Mowatt house any equivalent for the roomy, aristocratic dwelling she had
been compelled to abandon. Every annoyance that came up regarding this
removal she blamed Sappha for; and though she affected to be pleased
with the change, it had not only been a bitter mortification to her, but
also brought other unpleasant consequences in its train. For it had been
just the very kind of thing necessary to rouse Achille to a sense of
small household tyranny that he had tolerated because he preferred
toleration to assertion. But having once affirmed and exerted his right
he had not again relinquished the authority of master.
“I submitted too easily,” said Annette, when discussing the subject with
her grandmother; “and now Achille just says ‘madame will do this,’ or
‘madame will go there,’ or ‘madame will say so-and-so,’ and I seem to
have no power to say madame will not. Oh, grandmother, just for a few
words! It is too much punishment! I was so happy, and now I am not happy
at all. I sometimes wish that I could die.”
“Annette, my dear one, thou must not make more of trouble than there is.
Often I have told thee not to complain; after complaint there is no
oblivion. If Achille can be polite, cannot thou be silent? With silence,
one may plague the devil; but as for spoken words, no sponge wipes them
out.”
Thus and so events were progressing, as the spring of 1815 waxed to June
and roses again. There was at this time some probability that the judge
might be requested to go to England as legal adviser to agents sent by
the government to arrange some question of boundary not very clearly
stated; and if so, he proposed to take his wife and daughter with him.
Sappha heard of this arrangement with dismay, and it was hard for her to
enter into her mother’s little flurry of anticipation. She did not wish
to leave New York at all, for she felt certain that Leonard would return
as soon as he was able, if only to look after his large interests in
property and real estate. For in the short time intervening between the
advent of peace and the advent of summer the whole aspect of New York
had been changed. Stores and warehouses long closed were open, houses of
all kinds had found ready tenants, the streets were crowded with
vehicles, the shipyards literally alive, and vessels coming and going
constantly from and to every quarter of the globe. There was not a
branch of industry nor a corner of the city where New York’s citizens
were not proving their liberal views, their broad intelligence, and
their energetic activity. How could Leonard Murray stay away from his
own city when it was offering him such advantages for new investments
and such excellent opportunities for those he already possessed?
She did not include herself among the reasons for his return. She had no
hope that she could influence it in any way. If Leonard had not quite
forgotten her, he had at least resolved not to renew their acquaintance
in any degree. If this were not the case, he would have written to her,
sent her some message, some token, if it were only a flower. And at this
point she always felt anew the pang of despair; for Leonard would never
give her another flower. She had no reason to expect it, she did not
deserve it. Here reflection stopped. It could go no further, the memory
of that scattered rose was a barrier that no love could put aside or win
over.
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.