The Belle of Bowling Green
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