“I will do just as you say, Mamma Sappho!” he cried, impetuously throwing his arms about her neck in a bearlike hug.
Somewhat startled by the child’s precociousness, she sat there after he left her, watching the red sun slowly dropping out of sight in the west. The peaceful stillness of approaching darkness rested on the landscape. She heard a step and turned to perceive Monsieur Louis, who seated himself beside her on the rustic settee.
“We shall have a thunder shower before morning; see how heavy the clouds are hanging.”
“I have been watching them,” replied Sappho.
“Miss Clark, how long have you been with us?” he asked abruptly.
“A few months more than two years. Why, Monsieur Louis?”
“You have been happy?” he asked, ignoring her question.
“Happier than I can say.”
“Do not let what I am about to say distress you; but I want you to make me your confidant and tell me all your sad story, not from idle curiosity, but because I have grown to love you and the boy.”
“Oh, monsieur!” was all Sappho could say.
Then he spoke again. She had only a confused idea of his words, but his meaning was clearly written in her heart.
“My child,” he said gravely, taking her hand, “I am an old man, experienced in the ways of the world. I have seen and understood more of your story than I have seemed to. My heart yearns for you and the child. I am old and selfish, perhaps, but I offer you a home for yourself and the boy, an honorable name, and ample means to protect you when I am gone. In short, will you consent to marry an old man and make his few remaining years peaceful? Take time to reflect,” he said, as she started to interrupt him; “and my child, while you reflect, think of me. You have grown about my heartstrings. I could not rest in my grave if I left you alone and friendless.”
About Sappho’s heart there was a strange feeling of suffocation, a feeling such as a martyr might have experienced at the stake.
“I cannot answer now,” she said at length; “this is a strange idea to me.”
“Take time,” he replied; “but weigh my proposition well. There is plenty here; there is no one in the wide world to mar your peace, only an old man and two little girls. You shall be happy and honored.”
“I will give you my answer in a week,” she said, as she arose trembling from her seat.
“It is two weeks to Easter. Let me know your answer then.” And turning, he left her as abruptly as he had come.
XXI
After Many Days
“The Lord blessed the latter end of Job more than his beginning.”
The days dragged their weary length along. May passed; June and its roses faded into the languid heat of July. Still no trace was found of Sappho. Madam Frances had gone from the little house on Joy Street, and she, together with the child, had vanished and left no trace. There had been a nine-days’ wonder over the departure of Miss Clark, but outside of the few who were in the secret, no one knew the facts.
Will had received his degree from Harvard and was now looking forward to going abroad. But the eager zest and joy of pursuit and accomplishment were gone; duty alone remained.
It was rumored that John Langley had attached himself to the family of a well-to-do colored man of prominence in the city, and that he was very busily engaged in ingratiating himself into the good graces of the daughter of the house. People gossiped and speculated as to the cause of the broken engagement between him and Dora Smith, but from lack of information this sensation died out also.
Three months after Dora had broken with Langley the situation between her and Doctor Lewis was unchanged. The intimacy of early childhood was resumed, but she was shy and reserved beyond a certain point. Finally Doctor Lewis had been obliged to return to his charge in the South, but before he went he had obtained a promise from Dora to enter into correspondence with him. He had not dared to express the real interest and meaning which lay behind his request. The poor girl felt humiliated; her womanhood shamed; although to her surprise the happiness of life which had seemed quenched behind this flood of sorrow that had overtaken her was beginning to shine upon her again as buoyant youth regained its wonted sway. She respected Doctor Lewis, and appreciated the value of the position he had made for himself, but she did not intend to enter into another engagement immediately; she had almost determined to remain single for life until she heard of Langley’s conduct. After that came the fear that he might think that she regretted the past. No; she could not remain single; she would marry one whose manliness she could respect, if she did not love him. Love was another thing, with which, she told herself, she was done.
Dora possessed the rare talent of being an interesting correspondent; indeed, her literary talents would have been valuable if cultivated. Doctor Lewis soon found this out. She gave him fascinating glimpses of the possibilities of an inner nature which perfect love and trust might develop. These short views thrilled his being with the hope of winning so rare a prize for his life companion. He pursued her unceasingly. Flowers of rare beauty and fragrance, fruit and books, found their way to her home each week. John had been rather an indifferent lover; but who could resist the impetuous onslaught of a generous nature that truly loved?
Now, when the heat of July had brought with it his annual vacation, he had returned to the North. Upon their first meeting he said to her:
“Dora, I will take no denial. No; do not speak. I know what you would
