“Poor boys!”
“I think we have had enough of that subject,” said Mrs. Bloommaert; “is there no other news, Gerardus?”
“Well, my friend General Bloomfield is to be relieved of his command here; so my pleasant evening smoke and chat with him will soon come to an end. I heard, also, that the company raised by Leonard Murray had joined Colonel Harsen’s artillery regiment, and offered their services as a body to the governor, and that it has been accepted. Some parts of it will go to Staten Island, others to Bedloe’s Island and the Narrows.”
He did not raise his eyes as he made this statement, or he must have seen the face of his daughter flush and pale at his words. She understood from them that Leonard would leave New York, and she could not imagine how long his absence might be. Mrs. Bloommaert did not speak; but she looked curiously at the dropped countenance of her husband. In some dim, undefined way, she came in a moment to the conclusion that this bit of military movement had been effected by General Bloomfield, in order to please his friend. Annette shrugged her shoulders and said some one, or something, always carried off _her_ friends. She wondered what she should do without Leonard--he was so obliging, so merry, so always on hand when she wanted him, and so discreetly absent when she would have felt him a nuisance. She went on in a pretty, complaining way, as if Leonard was her special friend, or even lover, and though all present looked at her with a mild astonishment, no one cared to contradict the position she had taken. Madame even endorsed it by her unconscious affectation of sympathy. “You have a trifle of eight or ten other admirers, child,” she said; “and Leonard Murray is by no means unparagoned. A token give to him, and let him go; a little discipline, that will be good for him.”
This discussion had given Sappha time for self-control, and Mrs. Bloommaert looked with admiration at her daughter. She had feared some scornful or passionate word, but the face of Sappha was as calm as that of a sleeping child. She had taken possession of herself completely; and she asked her mother for some delicacy she wanted, with an air of one only concerned about her dinner. For by a strong mental effort she had closed the door on Leonard for the time being: she loved him too well, and too nobly, to babble about her relations with him--especially with her cousin Annette.
She asked her father for no further information, and he was pleased at her reticence; so much so that he gently stroked her hair as he passed her seat in going out; and the smile she gave him in return made him thoroughly respect her. It was a time when it was considered a mark of refinement in a woman to weep readily; and if under the stress of any unusual joy or grief or disappointment she fainted away, she was thought to have done the right thing to prove her exquisite sensibility. But if Sapphira had fainted on hearing of her lover’s departure, the judge would never have stroked her hair, and she would also have missed that comprehensive, kindling glance from her mother, which at once bid her be brave for the occasion, and assured her of sympathy.
But the weariest river finds the sea somewhere, and the time and the hour run through the longest day. There were visitors after dinner, and then tea-time came and went; and the judge prepared himself to see his mother and niece safely to their home.
“And, Carlita, my dear,” he said, “I may not be home until late. There is to be a meeting at Tammany Hall to approve the war, and considering our conversation to-day at dinner, one thing about the call is worth telling you--it is ‘recommended to citizens of forty-five years of age and upward.’”
Madame laughed and gave her long mitts an impatient jerk--“these greybeards of ‘forty-five and upward’ are going to talk very wisely, no doubt,” she said; “but the young men it is, who will man the ships and the batteries, and the real fighting do.”
“The old men will lead them, mother.”
“Sixteen were you when you went to the front in the last war, Gerardus; and Aaron Burr, who was no older, if as old, carried messages between Arnold and Montgomery through the thick of the fight at Quebec; and when Montgomery fell, little Burr it was who caught his body and carried it out of the line of fire through a very rain of bullets--a boy, mind you!”
“Mother, I have divested myself of all community of feeling with the man called Aaron Burr, and of all interest whatever in his sayings and doings.”
“There it is! However, the sayings and doings will talk for themselves some day. Come, let us be going. Carlita looks worn out with our chatter.”
Carlita did not deny the imputation, and as soon as the echo of their footsteps had died away in the distance, she said, “Sappha, carry the candles into the other parlour. I want to lie down on the sofa. I want to be quiet and dark, and find out where I am, and what I am. The strain has been very hard. Nassau Street always leaves me feeling fit for nothing but sleep.”
“And then to end it, that weary Aaron Burr controversy. Can’t people let him alone?”
“No! When he did well, he heard it never; now they say he has done ill, he hears of it day in and day out.”
So Sappha went to the best parlour, where the piano still stood open, with the new music scattered over it. She put it in order, and the very act brought her a restful, thoughtful mood. Then she closed the instrument, and drawing a comfortable chair before the window she sat down to commune with her own heart. If what her father had said concerning Leonard’s company was correct--and she had no doubt of it--then it was almost certain Leonard would himself call and tell her. He might call that very night; she was finally sure he would call, and her ears took intent note of every sound, and of every coming footstep.
Very rarely are our hopes and wishes accomplished! But this hour was favourable to Sappha’s love. In a very short time she heard the strong, quick steps she was waiting to hear; and her face grew luminous with pleasure, and a sweet smile made her little red mouth enchanting. She did not go to meet him--the front door stood wide open these summer evenings, and there was a distinct luxury in sitting still and waiting for the approach of happiness. It was approaching so surely, so swiftly, and as the steps came near, and more near, she heard in that scarcely broken silence the oracle of her heart.
He entered softly, with a grace half-mystical and half-sensuous; and without a word stood over her. Then she lifted her eyes, and he saw their bright light turn tender, and he stooped and laid his cheek against hers, and whispered: “Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me, Sappha? Speak, dearest! Speak quickly! Oh, speak kindly!”
And her soul flew to her lips, and there was no need of words. Love found a sweeter interpretation.
“Thy little white hand, give it to me.”
She had no will to refuse it, almost of its own will it slipped between the two strong hands that held it fast. Then he found out those happy love words that are so glad that they dance as they burn; those words at once so simple and so wise, so gentle and so strong.
And the great marvel of love is ever this--the slenderness of the knowledge and experience which compels one human being to say to another, “I love you!” which compels souls to rush together, as if they were drawn by some such irresistible attraction as compels planets to follow their orbits. Both were so young and so happy that they made each other seem lovelier as they sat with clasped hands, speaking of Leonard’s company and its destination.
“How shall I endure your absence, Leonard? I know not. You are my life, now, dear one,” said Sappha.
“But, Sappha, my sweet, I shall be in your thoughts, as you in mine; and we shall not know that we are apart. Besides, it will be only for ninety days.”
“Ah, but, Leonard, love reckons days for years, and every little absence is an age! The tedious hours will move heavily away, and every minute seem a lazy day.”
“Where have you learned all this?”
“You taught me.”
“Oh, love! love! love! How sweet you are! When I return, then you will be my wife. Let me speak to your father and mother to-night. Why should we wait?”
“Leonard, I have promised my father and mother that I will not engage myself to any one, until the war is over.”
“But that was before this happy hour. Such a promise cannot now stand, darling.”
“It cannot be broken. How could you ever trust me if I was false to the dear father and mother who love me so much?”
“But we are engaged, Sappha. No mere ceremony of asking consent can ever make us more truly one.”
“Then, my love, be content with that knowledge.”
“The war may last a lifetime.”
“It may be over in a year--or less.”
The love-light in her eyes, her tremulous smiles, her penetrative loveliness, her confident heart’s still fervour, filled him with an inward gladness that was unspeakable. His eyes dilated with rapture; he felt as if he was walking on air, and breathing some diviner atmosphere. The joy of love had gone to his head like wine.