In the meantime the government had revised its instructions to the envoys for peace. The rights stipulated for in 1813 and 1814 they were told to abandon; and “if necessary waive every point for which the war was commenced.” Nothing could more urgently describe the urgent necessity of the country, which, indeed, was financially and commercially on the brink of ruin. Her harbours were blockaded; communications coastwise between all ports cut off; ships rotting in every creek and cove where they could find security, and the immense annual products of the country mouldering in warehouses. The sources of profitable labour were dried up, and the currency considered as irredeemable paper. Nor were these things the worst features of the situation. A still more dangerous symptom of the national emergency was the hostility of certain portions of the Union. Secession in some States was a proposition not unlikely to become a fact; while the credit of the government was exhausted, and the war apparently as far from a close as ever it had been.

The winter also was very severe, the Hudson frozen across to Jersey City, and the Sound frozen across from the mainland to Sands Point. There was much poverty and suffering, and a great gloom and depression owing to the apparent failure of the Peace Commissioners at Ghent to effect any reasonable agreement. Yet among the military social entertainments were frequent, and the people prominent in New York social life still kept up the pretence of fashion, and gave dinners, balls, and theatre parties, which had a kind of half-hearted semblance of gaiety.

Sapphira Bloommaert availed herself of the reasonable excuse which public calamity gave her to retire from everything society called “pleasure”; therefore her absence from Annette’s entertainments escaped the unpleasant notice it would otherwise have received. Annette was able to parry all inquiries on two grounds; first, on Sappha’s national sympathy; or, if this reason was incredulously received, mysteriously to associate Mr. Murray’s name with that of his country. “Sappha was so sensitive; her country was in distress, and then also, her lover was in danger. Yes, Mr. Murray had joined General Jackson at New Orleans, and every one knew what a reckless soldier General Jackson was. Of course Sappha was not in a dancing mood. She could understand. For if Mr. St. Ange was with General Jackson, she would be incapable of seeing any one, even her dearest friends.”

People thought with her, or not with her, Annette cared little. They had been given reasons for Sappha’s absence from social affairs, and they could not, to her face, go beyond them. But Achille was not to be so easily put off. He himself had taken to the judge the information that Leonard was with General Jackson; and after this honourable certainty of her lover’s position he saw no reason for Sappha’s seclusion.

“Why does Sappha decline all our invitations, Annette?” he asked one night, after a rather disappointing dance. “We do miss her so much.”

“I endure her absence very comfortably,” replied Annette. “Sappha has been ill-natured with me ever since—— Oh, for a long time. How do you like Miss Bogardus?”

“Very well, she accommodates herself perfectly; but why is Sappha at disagreement with you? It is a pity. Our parties do not succeed without her. She is so lovely, so enchanting in her grace and kindness.”

“Well, then, you may accustom yourself to do without her beauty, and enchantments, and grace, and kindness. She will never enter this house again! There now! I know it! and I am not broken-hearted, Achille.”

“Madame is what she calls joking?”

Achille asked this question in a cold, even voice, but if Annette had been a wise woman she would have regarded the look in his eyes and the stern set of his lips as ominous and implacable. On the contrary, she defied them, being roused to that attitude by a number of little annoyances, of which this inquiry concerning Sappha was the culmination. She flung down the bracelet she had been unclasping in a temper, and answered:

“One does not joke about Sapphira Bloommaert. No, indeed! A girl that cannot understand a little mistake—a mere slip of the tongue.”

“You astonish me, Annette,” answered Achille. “I have always considered your cousin as most amiable—most easy to persuade. What slip, what mistake, did you make?”

“I do not care to talk about Sappha any longer. I am weary.”

“Then madame must sleep and rest. I can myself ask Sappha; perhaps I may rectify the little mistake—the slip——”

“Oh, Achille, do let the subject drop!”

“It interests, it excites me. There is a wrong; that is unfortunate. I may put it right. When did the little mistake occur?”

Then Annette perceived that she must tell the story herself or have the whole subject reopened. The latter course, with her uncle, aunt, and grandmother all opposed to her, was not to be endured. She was undressing her hair, and she turned round and faced Achille with its pale beauty streaming over her shoulders and emphasising the living whiteness of her face and throat; and Achille experienced again that singular sense of repulsion and fascination she had first inspired in his heart; for she looked more like some angry elfin creature than a mere mortal woman.

“Achille,” she said, “it will give me pleasure to tell you how I offended my cousin, who is lovely, so enchanting in her grace and kindness. You remember the morning that you had to attend to Leonard Murray’s duel? Very well, you went away without considering me. I was forced to get up, order the carriage, and ride as fast as possible to see my uncle.”

“What for? What reason? None whatever.”

“I wanted uncle Gerardus to find you—to stop you——”

“You followed me—you sent your uncle to follow me. I surely do not understand!”

“Uncle would have nothing to do with the affair, and he treated me rudely.”

“Rudely? I must see about that.”

“Good gracious, Achille! I mean unkindly. He would not interfere, and he told me not to trouble Sappha—and I was afraid for you.”

“Mon Dieu, Annette! Afraid for me!”

“And the very sight of Sappha was more than I could bear. All this trouble for me because of her cowardly lover, and so I told her what every one was calling Leonard. You know very well what that was. And she got angry, and that made me say a thing I was sorry for afterwards; and I told her that I was sorry, and she made believe to forgive me, but Sappha does not forgive right; and not even grandmother or uncle Gerardus can make her.”

“What thing was it you said?”

“I said every respectable person would shut their doors against Leonard Murray, and that I supposed I should have to shut my doors; and so now she will not come here. She says she never will come, unless Leonard comes with her.”

“Madame reminds me. This truly is madame’s house, and madame has the right to shut her doors against any one she wishes to affront. I must protect my friend, I must ask him to a house whose doors stand open for him. To-morrow I shall conclude the purchase of the Mowatt place, and we shall remove to it. I know not what day Mr. Murray may return, and the possibility of his being turned away from madame’s house fills me with anxiety.”

“Oh, Achille! Achille! We cannot leave this house. Grandfather de Vries only gave it to me on condition we lived in it. We shall lose the place, and it is valuable property. Oh, Achille!”

“Madame must understand that I would rather lose the property than lose my friend.”

From this position Achille would not retire, and Annette’s friends would not interfere. Madame said “she had no control over Annette’s finances, and that it was De Vries’ way to keep a string tied to every dollar not entirely under his own hand. And when Annette grew sentimental over the place, as “one of her wedding gifts” and “her bride home,” madame said:

“Full of memories it was, before you were born, Annette, and they are not all pleasant ones. At the cost of your purse, your tongue has talked; I hope, then, you will remember the lesson you pay dearly for.” Mrs. Bloommaert thought the Mowatt house would be healthier for Jonaca. It was high and sunny, and she advised her niece to accept it cheerfully on that ground. But the judge administered the most consoling opinion, for he laughed at Annette’s fears and said, “Batavius de Vries was non compos mentis and incapable of making any change in his will that would stand.” This assurance set Annette firmly on her feet. She accepted the inevitable as if it was precisely the thing she had been longing for. And though Achille was astonished at her charming complaisance and co-operation, he admired her tact, and rewarded it by adorning and furnishing her rooms in the delicate blues she affected.

The news of this change of residence caused far less surprise and talk than Annette had anticipated. No one seemed to consider it of much importance, and the reasons and excuses for her removal which Annette had prepared were hardly called for. Indeed, most people had interests of their own to employ all their speculation, for the winter was the most hopeless one New York had suffered since the commencement of the war. Many, like Sapphira Bloommaert, refused all invitations to parties of pleasure; some on patriotic grounds, many more because the financial pressure of the times forbade extravagance of every kind. And as if to sanction and strengthen this retirement, the President urged the keeping of the twelfth day of January, 1815, as a day of fasting, humiliation, and prayers for peace. The bitter cold, the deep snows, the scarcity of all necessaries of life, the silence and suspense enforced by the winter, affected the most careless; and there was an oppressive feeling and a longing for peace that could not be thrown off.

The reviving stir under this national nightmare did not occur until the evening of February the eleventh. Sappha was reading to her father the travels of Mungo Park, and they were much interested in them. Even Mrs. Bloommaert had let her work fall to her lap, and was listening with moist eyes to Park’s despair in the desert and his restoration to hope and life by the sight of a little wild flower in the desolate place. Suddenly a chorus of exulting shouts filled the Bowling Green. The judge leaped to his feet.

“It is peace!” he cried. “Open the windows! Let us hear! Let us see!” And at that moment every window on the Bowling Green was thrown open. Men were pouring from the houses into the street, as a deep harmonius anthem came rolling down Broadway, into the Bowling Green, an anthem of one glad note—“Peace! Peace! Peace!”

Regardless of all warnings and entreaties, the judge went out. “The news will keep me warm,” he said; and as he hastily buttoned up his long coat he looked twenty years younger. “You need not be anxious about father to-night,” said Sappha to her mother. “He will take no harm, and, oh, how I wish I could go with him!”

By this time every house in the neighbourhood was illuminated and open; the women in them calling and waving to each other. The forts were bellowing the news up and down the river; and for four hours thousands of men and women were constantly passing through the Bowling Green carrying torches and crying with jubilant voices the same glad word, “Peace! Peace! Peace!” And above all this joyful hubbub the bells of Trinity rang clear and strong, echoing between earth and heaven the same exulting song.

Not until after midnight did the judge return home. He had been a sick man for a week. He was then quite well, full of hope, almost drunk with enthusiasm. Hot coffee was waiting for him, but he called for meat, and insisted on having it. “The doctor has nothing to do with my case to-night,” he said. “I know what I want, Carlita. I am hungry. I have spent ten years of life the past four hours. Glad of it—well spent are they! Give me meat and bread. Oh, then, I will take coffee, but it ought to be wine—the best wine in the world is not enough.”

He was throwing off his coat as he spoke, and he then went to the roaring fire and spread out his wet feet to its warmth. His wife looked with terror at their condition.

“I did not know they were wet, Carlita,” he said. “I never thought of my feet. Kouba, take off my shoes and stockings and get dry ones. My feet were too happy to be sick; they never gave me one twinge! Why, Carlita, I have walked miles to-night, and I am not tired.”

“And you are so hoarse that you can scarcely whisper, Gerardus.”

“Am I? Then I must have been shouting with the rest. I did not know it. Never mind, the news is worth the shout. Now my feet are dry and warm, give me my coffee, and something to eat; and I will talk to you—if I can.”

“Did you see anything of Peter?”

“I met him. He had been to mother’s, and he was coming for me.”

“How did Peter hear so quickly?”

“He was sitting in the office of The Gazette in Hanover Square. Peter goes there often in the evenings. It is a great place of resort for the men of that quarter; but being Saturday night no one was there but Mr. Lang and Alderman Cebra; and they were just going to shut up the office when a pilot rushed in. He stood for a moment breathless and speechless, and while they wondered he gasped out, ‘Peace! the boat is here with the treaty!’ In a minute, Peter says, every one rushed into the Square shouting Peace! and every window was thrown up, and every one in the surrounding houses was on the street. And immediately the cry was heard from all quarters of the city. The news spread like wildfire. No one could say how it happened, but in less than one hour every waking soul in New York knew it. Houses were all illuminated, and I wonder if there was any one left in them, for the streets were crowded with men and women both; and none thought of the cold, and no one knew that it was snowing.”

“And now you can hardly speak, Gerardus.”

“I have been shouting, though I did not know that I opened my lips. Such a song of gladness I shall never hear again, Carlita, in this world. I am glad I lost my voice in it.”

“Well and good; but what did the Democrats say? Did they——”

“We were all Democrats, and we were all Federalists to-night. Men that have not spoken to each other for four years shook hands to-night. Strangers were friends to-night. There were no rich and no poor to-night. We were all citizens of New York to-night. We were all brothers. Carlita, Sappha, I would not have missed to-night for anything in the world.”

“I am afraid you will have to suffer for it, Gerardus.”

“I do not believe it. I never felt better in all my life. Why, here comes Mr. Goodrich!” And with these words a bright, exulting gentleman walked into the room.

“Your door stood open, judge,” he said, “and I did not know you were able to be out, so I thought I would call and rejoice a while with you.”

“I have been on the street for four hours, Mr. Goodrich; four of the happiest hours of my life. You know about that?”

“Thank God, I do! I went last night to Miss Dellinger’s concert and ball at the City Hotel. She was singing The Death of Lawrence when I heard a strange murmur, and then a wild shout on the street. The next moment the door of the concert hall was thrown open and a man, breathless with excitement, rushed in crying ‘Peace! Peace! An English sloop-of-war is here with the treaty.’ The music instantly ceased, and the hall was empty in a few minutes. No one thought of the song, no one remembered the ball. We all, men and women, rushed into the street. Broadway was a living tide of happy, shouting human beings. Many were bare-headed, and did not know it. No one cared for the cold. They were white with snow, and quite indifferent to the fact.”

“I saw them! I was among them! I must have been shouting too, but I was not aware of it at the time. Have you heard from any one what terms we have got? Will you believe that I have not thought of ‘terms’ until this moment?”

“Nor have I, judge. I have heard no one ask about the terms. No one cares about terms just yet. We have peace! That is enough!”

CHAPTER TEN

The Star of Peace

And the spirit of reconstruction was as potent in women as in men, though their arena for its exercise was more restricted. Mrs. Bloommaert began at once to talk of new carpets and curtains, and of a complete refurnishing of the principal rooms of the house. And as the spring came on every dwelling on the Bowling Green caught this fever of improvement; and first one and then another displayed to passers-by their fresh paint and their new lace draperies. It was a sign of some consequence, for it typified the strength of that hope and energy which embraced domestic comforts and elegancies as part and parcel of their civic prosperity.

In all the changes made in the Bloommaert house Sappha felt, or at least affected to feel, a sufficient interest. She could not shadow her mother’s busy pleasure by any evident want of sympathy, yet it was sometimes difficult to forget sufficiently her offended lover. Her soul—that strange, fluttering mystery—had lost its life’s dominant, the other soul to which it had learned to refer every thought and desire; and there was now silence or discord where once there had been sweetest melody. Her suffering, however, was no longer a storm, it was rather a still, hopeless rain, an unimpassioned grief that seldom found the natural outlet of tears. But these constant fires of repression and self-immolation were sacramental as well as sacrificial. They were strong with absolution also; and thus made calm and sure by much sorrow and by one love, she gradually came out of trouble with a spirit tempered as by fire; having lost nothing in the furnace but the dross of her nobler qualities.

She rarely heard of Leonard. She knew that he was in New Orleans, and attached to the staff of General Jackson; and so, in the final struggle, doing his duty to his country. But she never forgot the fact that he ought to have been in his native city. “It is my fault, all my fault. No wonder Leonard cannot forgive me,” she said when Mrs. Bloommaert blamed his absence during the darkest days New York had known.

The news of the victory at New Orleans followed closely on the news of peace. It was brought to the Bloommaert household by Achille, who received it with a letter from Mr. Edward Livingston. “Our friend Leonard Murray was wounded in the right arm,” he added; “rather a bad sword cut, but he is with the Livingstons, and has every possible care and attention.”

Annette came in later, and, unaware of her husband’s visit, made a great deal more of Leonard’s wound than Achille had done. She “hoped it would not be necessary to resort to amputation—a right arm was so convenient, not to say necessary. And he got it just for interfering,” she continued. “An English officer had struck down a man carrying the flag, and Leonard caught the flag as it was falling, and then of course the Englishman fell upon Leonard. Leonard always was so interfering—I mean so ready to do every one’s duty for them. You see it was not his place to take care of the flag; so he got hurt taking care of it. Grandfather de Vries always told me never to volunteer, and never to interfere. If a person does his own work and duty in this world, it is all that can be expected of him. Poor Leonard!”

“Oh!” said Sappha, “I think you may keep your pity, Annette, for these poor creatures who never volunteer and never interfere. Suppose every one had followed your grandfather’s advice, where would America be now?”

“I do not know. It is not my place to look after America,” answered Annette.

“I will tell you then—it would be under the feet of England.”

“Grandfather de Vries often says there were very good times when the English were here——”

“Come, come, Annette,” interrupted Mrs. Bloommaert, “you are only talking nonsense. When do you move into your new house?”

“Next month. Achille is delightfully considerate. All my rooms are furnished in blue, because he thinks blue so becoming to me; and he takes my advice entirely about the rest. We shall have the most elegant dwelling in the city; and I am glad this dreadful war is over. Now I can get the carpets I desire.”

“Did Mrs. Livingston say anything about the condition of New Orleans?” asked Mrs. Bloommaert.

“I did not read her letter. Achille desired me to do so, but I have honour. I would not read Mrs. Livingston’s letter. I do not see why she should write to my husband. I do not write to Mr. Livingston.”

“She is an old friend of Achille’s. Mr. Livingston is much too busy to write letters. Perhaps she thought Leonard Murray had friends in New York who would be glad to hear that he was well cared for.”

“Do you believe that Leonard Murray yet remembers us? I do not. We were all so kind to the young man, and Achille stood by him when no one else would. Oh, you need not leave the room, Sappha! I was just going to praise Leonard a little.”

But Sappha did leave the room, and Mrs. Bloommaert said with some temper:

“You have done mischief enough, Annette; why can you not let Leonard alone? You are too unkind to Sappha.”

“Oh, then, aunt, I think it is Sappha who is truly cruel to me. Because she will not come to our house, I shall have to remove to that ugly Mowatt place. I hate it. All the pretty furniture in the world will not make it endurable; and if Sappha will not visit us there, I know not what Achille will say or do. To be driven from house to house for Sappha’s temper is not a pleasant or a reasonable thing.”

“Before Sappha’s temper, there was your own temper, Annette; and I am sure you need not expect Sappha to visit you in your new home unless you also expect Leonard.”

“I suppose I shall have to write to Leonard, and tell him the trouble I am in. I think he would come back and get Sappha to forgive me properly, if I ask him. He was always very fond of me.”

“If you write to Leonard Murray one word about Sapphira Bloommaert I will never speak to you again, Annette. You may depend upon that! How can you be so malicious?”

“Malicious! You will misunderstand me, aunt Carlita. I thought perhaps if I wrote and told Leonard how angry Sappha was, and how Achille had nearly quarrelled with me about Sappha, he might come back to New York. And I am sure any one can see that Sappha is breaking her heart about his desertion of her.”

“Sappha is doing nothing of the kind. Sappha is perfectly happy.”

“Oh, I am so glad to hear it! Sappha is perfectly happy! Why did she go 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: