“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.