She stood a moment gazing at the fair prospect spread out before them.
“How peaceful, beautiful and calm the landscape seems. If earth be so fair, what must be the beauty of heaven?” she said, after a slight pause.
“Indeed, yes,” replied Will, as he glanced at the fair face beside him with something like awe. For a moment he felt that he stood in the presence of a saint; earthly passion seemed out of place.
After a moment’s silence she seated herself, mechanically protesting that she had promised Dora to help her with her Sunday-school class at half-past one.
“Never mind,” said Will, “it is real Sunday-school work for you to look after me a bit. I’m sure I need Bible lessons.” At this they both laughed, and then Sappho asked:
“Where ought the lesson to be?”
She saw instantly by the change in his expression that she had given him his opening, and immediately lost the self-possession she had just gained.
“ ‘And Jacob loved Rachel; and said, I will serve thee seven years for thy younger daughter,’ ” quoted Will softly, as he looked at the gentle face and downcast eyes beside him. Sappho said nothing, but gazed intently at the landscape with unseeing eyes, as she nervously clasped and unclasped her delicately gloved hands. Suddenly she felt one small hand drawn within a strong, warm clasp.
“There are shadows on your face; why are they there? You think all kinds of sad thoughts. Tell them to me, Sappho.”
“Nay,” she said at length, “why should I? they are not clear even to myself. You would not understand my vagaries. Why should you be bothered with them?”
“Because, Sappho, my beautiful one, my darling, I love you—surely you know it—I have loved you from the first moment that I saw you. Be my wife, my blessing.”
She did not answer; her face had grown very white.
“Have I frightened you? Do not think me cruel, Sappho; you do not know how much I love you.”
She was still silent, but another look satisfied him that she was not angry. The gloved hand stopped fluttering, and lay quietly within his clasp.
“You do not think me presumptuous? You are not angry? Tell me that you love me.”
“Wait one moment,” she said; and then he saw that she was trembling violently.
“Don’t you care for me a little?” he asked anxiously, “or have I been living in a fool’s paradise the past two months?”
“I do care for you,” she whispered, in a voice so low that only a lover could have heard it.
“Ah!” he cried impetuously; “then I will never let you go!”
“Ah, Will, I wonder if it is right for me to love you, or to allow you to love me?”
“Most decidedly it is right. Why do you doubt?”
“You have known me such a short time,” she protested.
“I know that you are the dearest girl in all the world to me,” he replied, holding her hand still more tightly clasped. “You are mine now, and nothing shall part us. I shall always remember this day as the happiest of my life. You do not know how dearly I love you.”
“I shall know if you persist in telling me so often,” she said, smiling at his impetuosity.
“Heaven bless you, Sappho, my dearest. I shall never tire of ringing the changes on love.”
“Why should you care so much for me?” she asked wistfully. “I have no family—no friends—no money—”
“I have family enough for both of us,” he returned quickly. “My mother loves you, my sister adores you; what more is there to be desired?”
“But there are things which you ought to know—things connected with the past—”
“I do not care for the past,” he broke in; “all I ask is that you love me above all other men, as I adore you above all other women.”
She was carried away by the vehemence of his wooing. All obstacles seemed, indeed, but trifles before this all-absorbing, passionate, eager warmth of youth’s first love. Poor soul! poor starved and storm-beaten heart! Something of life that was dead leaped again into existence and loosened the icy hand that had for years locked up the fountain of youthful joy. She felt drawn out of herself as she looked into the eyes of love and met the luminous light which transfigured the face of her lover.
“Ask me no more; thy fate and mine are sealed:
I strove against the stream and all in vain;
Let the great river take me in the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.”
Silently she turned to him and placed the other hand within his clasp, and burst into a tempest of weeping.
“Sappho!” he cried, in a transport of delight, as he tried to dry her tears; “my darling, my wife!”
O happy Easter Day!
They sat there a long time in heart communion, reviewing the history of their short acquaintance, and the wonderful thing that had happened to them. They planned that Sappho should stay with Will’s mother while he went abroad, and then when his course was finished they would be married immediately upon his return. They would keep their sweet secret a little while. They could not share this hallowed day with others. It was consecrated and holy to them because of its dear association with the hidden stream of their united lives.
John Langley was returning from an errand down town, and attracted by the beauty of the morning, determined to cross the Garden on his way to the South End. Suddenly, beneath the trees he espied the lovers. He paused a moment. They were so much absorbed in each other that they had not seen him. He turned aside into a path which ran very near to them on one side, and paused beneath the shadow of some friendly trees where he was secure from observation and could watch their movements unseen.
The happy light on Will’s expressive countenance did not escape him; he noted, too, the shy happiness
