“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.
It was on her father’s arm the lovely Sapphira entered. Every one instinctively felt her approach; conversation ceased, laughter was hushed, all were at pleased attention when they heard the light footsteps and the gentle rustling of the silk wedding gown. A kind of radiance came in with her; came from her tall bright beauty, from the glow in her eyes, from her fresh, sweet face, from the warm lights about her shining hair, and the scintillating glory of the gems around her white neck. In her hand she held a perfect white rose, and either of design or by some fortunate accident she stood exactly on the spot where she had parted from Leonard with the rejected, scattered rose between them. But true love knows not rejection; from the ends of the earth it returns to its own; it cannot retain a memory of offence for ever and ever; it not only gives, but forgives.
Three hours after the ceremony the Bloommaert household were on their way to England, and Peter had charge of the house on the Bowling Green. “We shall be back in the fall of the year,” the judge said to his son, “for I have much to attend to in New York this coming winter.”
* * * * *
The judge kept his promise, but Leonard and Sappha did not return with him. Sappha had accompanied her husband to Scotland, and after his mission to the Highlands had been accomplished they lingered a while in Edinburgh. Here they met an old acquaintance who was going to Holland and Belgium, and they went with him to these countries. Then, the wander-fever being still upon Leonard, they travelled southward to France and Italy, returning to England by the usual tourist route through Switzerland. And, as at that day the facilities for travel were small, and its difficulties and hindrances for travel many and perplexing, it was more than a year before they again reached London, and turned their faces westward and homeward.
Homeward! The word tasted sweet in Sappha’s mouth. She said it over and over, and the first sight of the open arms of the low-lying American shore brought happy tears to her eyes. The Bowling Green at last! After so many strange lands, after so many wonderful days in the old, old world, here was the fresh young world, with all its splendid hopes again! The flag they loved, the homes they knew, the people who belonged to them--these things were best of all; dearest of all were the contentful sum of all their future hopes and desires. The great cities, the fairest spots in Europe, were now only as picture books and memories; but Home, Sweet Home was on Bowling Green.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
_Afterward_
If any of my readers believe marriage to be the completion and consummation of individual life, they will be willing to consider the story of Sapphira finished when she married Leonard Murray. But if they rather believe it to be the open portal to a grander and wider life, they will find the few following pages a sufficient index to a future which they can unfold and amplify from their own knowledge and experience. So that I need only say that when Sapphira Murray entered the beautiful home which her father built for her on the south side of the Bowling Green she could have had no dream of its future destiny. She dwelt there in sweet contentment for many years, and died in its lofty front chamber just before the war of 1860. Leonard Murray did not long survive his beloved wife. He wandered disconsolately around the Green, or strolled slowly in the Battery Park for a few months, and was then laid beside her in that aristocratic little graveyard on Second Street, which, though surrounded by the tumult of the city, keeps to this day its flowery seclusion.