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Books: Leah Mordecai

M >> Mrs. Belle Kendrick Abbott >> Leah Mordecai



This eBook was edited by Charles Aldarondo (www.aldarondo.net).




LEAH MORDECAI. A NOVEL.

BY MRS. BELLE KENDRICK ABBOTT.

NEW YORK:

1856.

TO MY BELOVED UNCLE,
THE REV. J. RYLAND KENDRICK, D.D.,
WHOSE HOSPITABLE HOME I ONCE SPENT MANY HAPPY
DAYS--DAYS MADE FOR EVER BRIGHT BY THE LOVE
OF HIS GREAT HEART, LOVE THAT FLOWED LIKE
A PURE STREAM FROM A CRYSTAL FOUNTAIN,
ABOUND AND ABOUT MY YOUNG LIFE--
THIS BOOK IS MOST TENDERLY

INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR.

ATLANTA, GA, November, 1875.






LEAH MORDECAI.

CHAPTER I.





THE giant clock on the wall in the assembly-room of Madam Truxton's
fashionable school had marked the hour for dismission.

Groups of restless, anxious pupils stood about the apartment, or
were gathered at the windows, watching the rain that had been
falling in copious showers since morning. All were eager to go, yet
none dared brave the storm.

Under the stone archway of the entrance to the assembly-hall, a
group of four maidens stood chatting, apart from the rest, watching
the rain, and impatient for its cessation.

"I know my father will either send my brother, or come for me
himself," said Helen Le Grande, "so I need not fear the rain." Then,
turning to the soft-eyed Jewess who stood by her side, she added,
"When the carriage comes, Leah, you can take a seat with me. I'll
see that you are safely deposited at home."

"Thank you, Helen, but it won't hurt me to walk. Nothing hurts
me--Leah Mordecai the despised." Then, averting her face, the young
girl gazed abstractedly into the street, and began humming in a low
tone.

To these words of the young Jewess there was no reply. A certain
sort of emphasis in her utterance seemed to forbid any inquiry, and
silence any word of censure that might arise to the lips of her
companions.

"How mean of me, not to offer a seat in the carriage to Lizzie
Heartwell, too," thought Helen after a moment's reflection; "but I
dared not, on account of my brother, who has so repeatedly urged me
to make equals only of the rich. He little knows how I love Lizzie
Heartwell, and whether she be rich or poor I know not, neither do I
care."

"I say, girls," at length broke the silence, as the fourth member of
the group, Bertha Levy, a Jewess too, spoke out, "think how stupid I
am. Mamma has promised me a small tea-party to-morrow night, and
this wretched rain had well-nigh caused me to forget it; but, thank
fortune, it's giving way a little, and maybe we shall all get home
after awhile. I'm desperately hungry! Of course, you will all
promise me to come, and I shall expect you." Then, turning to Helen,
she said, "Won't you?"

Helen assented.

"And you, Leah?"

"I will if I can. I am never sure of my movements, however."

"And you, dear Lizzie?"

"With the permission of my uncle and aunt; at any rate, I thank you
for your kindness."

"Well, I shall expect you every one, and--"

"There comes the carriage," shouted Helen, as the liveried coach of
the wealthy judge rolled round the corner, and drove up in front of
the spacious school-building. "I knew my father would not forget
me--yes, there is my brother."

The horses, thoroughly wet, looked dark and sleek as greyhounds, as
they stood impatiently stamping the paving-stones, while a visible
cloud of vapor rose from each distended nostril.

The coach door opened, and Emile Le Grande, with handsome, manly
figure clad in a gray military suit, and equally handsome face,
stepped out, and approached the group so impatiently watching the
progress of the storm.

"Good morning, Miss Mordecai; I am happy that we meet again," said
the gentleman, politely bowing.

"Thank you, sir; but your presence rather surprises us," replied
Leah.

"I trust, though, I am not an unwelcome intruder upon this fair
group?"

"Allow me to remind you, my brother, that my friends, Miss Heartwell
and Miss Levy, are also present," said Helen rather reproachfully.

Emile acknowledged the reproof and the courtesy with an apology and
a smile, and then added, "To Miss Mordecai's charms I owe the breach
of politeness."

Leah's face flushed crimson, and her eye sparkled more brightly than
ever at these flattering words of the young cadet; but she made no
reply.

"Come, Helen, let's go," at length said the brother. "The horses are
impatient. C‘sar is wet, and I guess you are tired, too." Then,
turning to Leah, he continued, "Miss Mordecai, will you honor us
with your company till we reach your father's house, where I pledge
myself to deposit you safely?"

"Oh! yes, Leah will go; I have already asked her," said Helen. Then,
after a moment's preparation, the two young friends stepped into the
carriage.

"Good-by again, girls," said Bertha Levy gayly, as the coach door
closed; "riding is rather better than walking, such a day as this.
Remember to-morrow night." Then, with a dash, the carriage was out
of sight.

"Well, Lizzie," resumed Bertha, smiling significantly, for she could
not but observe Helen's manifest preference in offering Leah a seat
with her, "we need not stand here any longer. I see that the rain,
out of consideration for us, is about to cease, and I don't think
any coach is coming for me. Do you expect one?"

To this characteristic remark, Lizzie Heartwell replied smilingly,
"I guess, Bertha, with umbrellas, overshoes, and care, we can reach
home without serious damage."

"But care is not a coach, you know, my friend, no matter how we turn
it," said Bertha laughingly, as she donned the wrapping and
overshoes. "I am as hungry as a wolf, and I fear mamma will let that
young brother of mine eat all my dinner, if I am too slow in getting
there. Boys are perfect cormorants, anyhow. Come, let's go at once."

The two girls stepped out into the slippery street, and turned their
faces homeward. "I am glad, Lizzie," continued Bertha, as they
turned corner after corner, "that our paths run together so far;
having company is so much better than being alone this forlorn
afternoon. And remember, I desire to know the answer to my
invitation as early as possible. To-morrow is my brother Isaac's
confirmation day, and we must all be promptly at the synagogue at
nine o'clock."

"You shall know to-night, Bertha, and I will be with you, if
possible. But here, before we part, let's stop and buy some bananas
of old Maum Cinda. She is always so grateful for a fivepence dropped
by a school-girl."

By this time the two girls were standing in front of the well-known
fruit-stall of the old blind colored woman known far and near
through the Queen City as "Maum Cinda." For years, hers had been the
important market for supplying the school-children with luscious
fruits, unimpeachable taffy, and ground-pea candy.

"An' bless de Lord, is it Miss Lizzie?" said the good-natured woman,
as the sound of Lizzie Heartwell's voice fell upon her ear in the
kindly spoken salutation.

"An' w'at will you have to-day, chile?"

"Some bananas, Maum Cinda--two for me, and two for my friend here,
Miss Bertha Levy."

"Oh! yes, Miss Bertha," replied the woman, courtesying, "an' maybe I
have seen Miss Bertha, but it's the sweet voice of Miss Lizzie that
the old blind woman remembers"--handing the bananas across the wide
board that protected her tempting wares from public incursions.

"You flatter me, Maum Cinda; but I hope the rainy day has not
interfered much with your trade. Here"--and extending her slender
white hand, Lizzie dropped the jingling pennies into the aged,
wrinkled one that opened to receive them.

"God bless you, chile. You neber forget His poor ones, de blind. God
bless you!"

"Good morning, Maum Cinda."

"Good-by, young ladies, good-by." And the last glimpse the two
receding friends had of the old woman, she was still profoundly
bowing and courtesying in acknowledgment of their remembrance.

Then the friends parted for the day, each one taking the most direct
course to her home, and soon both were safely sheltered from the
drizzling rain and chilling wind.






CHAPTER II.





TWO pale lilies and two royal roses upon a stem, would scarcely form
a more beautiful or striking group than did the four maidens
standing together under the stone archway of the school-room, on
that gloomy day at Madam Truxton's.

The fair hair and blue eyes of Helen Le Grande and Lizzie Heartwell
distinctly contrasted with the jetty locks and eyes of Bertha Levy
and Leah Mordecai--the beauty of neither style being in any degree
marred by such close contact.

The blonde beauty of the first two maidens bespoke their
unmistakable Anglo-Norman blood and Christian descent, while the
opposite cast of the others testified to their Jewish origin.

A casual observer even, would have decided that these four maidens
were bound together by an unusual bond of friendship--an incongruous
friendship it might have seemed, and yet it was not such.

Helen Le Grande, the eldest of the group by a few months, was
scarcely eighteen years of age, as bright and gay a maiden as one
could find in all the land, and the only daughter of Judge Le
Grande, a lawyer of wealth and distinction.

Of immediate French descent, Judge Le Grande possessed in an eminent
degree the peculiarities of his gay, volatile ancestry. Proud of his
children, and ambitious for their future, in his lavish bounty he
withheld nothing he deemed necessary for their advancement in life.

Thus at eighteen, Helen Le Grande looked out upon life's opening sky
as thoughtlessly as she would look upon the bright waters of the
blue harbor that stretched before her father's mansion, where sky
and water blended in a peaceful, azure expanse, little heeding or
caring whether storms came, or sunshine rested on the deep. Bertha
Levy, the little darked-eyed Jewess who stood by her side under the
stone archway, was nothing more or less than a piquant little
maiden, just turned seventeen, of amiable disposition and
affectionate heart, but by no means partial to study, and always
ready to glean surreptitiously from her books, any scraps of the
lesson that might be useful, either to herself or her friends, in
the ordeal of recitation.

Bertha's mother was a widow, whose circumstances allowed her
children all the comforts and even many luxuries of life. She had
reared them most rigidly in Hebrew faith. Lizzie Girardeau
Heartwell, the next in the fair tableau, was the only member of the
group who was not a native of the Queen City. It is no misstatement
of fact to say that she was, indeed, the ruling spirit of Madam
Truxton's entire school.

Dr. Heartwell, Lizzie's father, had lived in a distant State, and
died when she was but a tender child. Her mother, a descendant of
the Huguenots, was herself a native of the Queen City. But far away
from her native home had Mrs. Heartwell's married life been spent,
and Lizzie's young days, too, had passed in their quiet uneventful
home at Melrose.

But at the age of fifteen, and three years prior to the opening of
this story, under the kindly guardianship of her uncle, Lizzie
Heartwell entered the popular finishing school of Madam Truxton.

Possessed of noble, heroic blood, and blessed with love that
instilled into her young mind the principles of a brave, devoted
ancestry, it was but natural that Lizzie Heartwell should exhibit an
unusual development of heart and mind at a very tender age, and give
early promise of a braver, nobler womanhood, when Time should set
his seal upon her brow.

Reluctantly the heart turns to read the half-written history in the
sad face of Leah Mordecai, the fourth maiden standing pictured
against the stone under the archway. She was of the unmistakable
Jewish type, possessing the contour of face, the lustrous eye, the
massive crown of hair, that so often distinguish and beautify the
Hebrew maiden, wheresoever the sun may rise and set.

In the sadness that rested upon this young girl's face, one might
dimly detect the half-extinguished flame of hope, that usually
burns so brilliantly in the hearts of most young girls. But why this
sadness no one could tell. Its cause was a mystery even to her
friends. Benjamin Mordecai was an opulent banker, who for many years
lived in solitary grandeur in his bachelor home. But in the process
of time, he wedded the gentle Sarah David, and brought her to share
with him his home and fortune.

Love had led to this marriage, and peace and happiness for a time,
like sweet angels, seemed to have come to dwell evermore within the
home. But time brought changes. After the lapse of a year and a
half, the cherished Leah was born, and from that day the mother's
health declined steadily for a twelvemonth, and then she was laid in
the grave.

As the mother faded, the infant Leah thrived and flourished, filling
the father's heart with anxious, tender love.

Among the inmates of the Mordecai home from the time of Mrs.
Mordecai's declining health, was a young woman, Rebecca Hartz, who
acted as house-keeper and general superintendent of domestic
affairs. She had been employed by Mr. Mordecai for this important
position, not so much on account of her competency to fill it, as to
bestow a charity upon her unfortunate father, who constantly
besought employment for his numerous children, among the more
favored of his people.

Isaac Hartz was a butcher, whose slender income was readily
exhausted by a burdensome family. Rebecca, his daughter, was a
good-looking young woman of twenty at the time she entered Mr.
Mordecai's family. Although coarse and ill-bred, she was also shrewd
and designing, often making pretence of friendship and affection to
gain her ends when in reality hatred and animosity were burning in
her bosom. Such was Rebecca Hartz. Such the woman to usurp the
household government, when the gentle Mrs. Mordecai had passed away.






CHAPTER III.





IN Mrs. Levy's attractive drawing-room, Bertha's guests were
assembled for the tea-party.

Lizzie Heartwell, the first to arrive, was ushered into the brightly
lighted room, to find Mrs. Levy the only occupant.

"I welcome you gladly, Miss Heartwell," said Mrs. Levy, rising and
taking Lizzie by the hand. "I have long desired your acquaintance,
knowing my daughter's friendship for you. Pray be seated."

"I thank you, Mrs. Levy," replied Lizzie, "I indeed esteem it an
honor to meet the mother of such a friend as Bertha."

"My daughter will be present by and by. I regret that necessity
compels her non-appearance as yet. Sit nearer the fire."

Lizzie drew closer to the glowing grate, and they continued a
pleasant conversation till Bertha appeared.

"What a handsome woman!" thought Lizzie, as she occasionally
surveyed Mrs. Levy from head to foot during the tˆte-…-tˆte.

And she was a handsome womam, dressed quietly but richly in black
satin, her head adorned only by the clustering curls she had worn
from her girlhood. There was little change even in their
arrangement, and only an occasional thread of silver here and there
bespoke the touch of time. Her eyes were still beautiful, but their
lustre had been dimmed by the tears of her widowhood.

Bertha bore the same cast of beauty that distinguished her mother,
yet time's developing, modelling work for her was not yet completed.
When the guests were duly assembled, Bertha approached her mother,
who was still entertaining Lizzie, appearing quite fascinated with
her daughter's friend, and said, "Mother, won't you release your
prisoner now? Helen Le Grande wishes her to join the group over
there by the window, in a game of euchre."

"Certainly, my dear. I trust Miss Heartwell will pardon me if I have
detained her too long."

"Come, Lizzie, come along," said Bertha; and then added, in an
undertone, "you know what I promised to show you, Lizzie. Come with
me; let them make up the game without you."

"Oh! yes, that album; show it to me," said Lizzie, following Bertha
to a well-filled ‚tagŠre, from which she took a handsomely bound
album, saying, "This is from Asher. Isn't it lovely?"

"Indeed it is," replied Lizzie.

"Mamma says I do not know who sent it to me, as there is no name
anywhere. She does not wish me to think it's from Asher, but I know
it is. It's just like him to do such nice things," and, bending her
head closer to Lizzie, Bertha continued, "you see, Lizzie, I am
awfully disappointed because mamma would not allow me to invite him
here to-night. I am just as vexed as I well can be."

"Won't some of these other gentlemen answer in his stead?" asked
Lizzie, smiling.

"Bosh! no; all of these, and forty more, are not equal to Asher
Bernhardt, in my estimation. I love Asher, I tell you, and I mean to
marry him, one of these days; do you hear me?"

"Marry! how you talk! A girl of your age presuming to say that you
will marry such and such a one," said Lizzie, laughing.

"Indeed! I consider myself woman enough to decide whom I like,
better than any one else, whether you call that old enough to marry,
or not. But let me tell you what mamma said to-day, when she caught
me kissing the album. 'Bertha Levy'--and oh! she looked so straight
and solemn at me that I almost trembled--'Bertha Levy, are you going
to make yourself ridiculous about that strolling player, Asher
Bernhardt? Tell me.' 'You know he plays the flute superbly, and
that's what I like.' Then I said meekly:

"'I know that he loves me.'

"'You know nothing of that sort, and you are a very silly girl. This
is the way you regard my teachings, is it, fancying strolling
players at private theatricals? What! could you promise yourself to
marry such a man--a man whose chief recomendation is, that he can
play the flute?'

"'Happiness,' I whispered.

"'Wretchedness, you mean! Well, I forbid you ever thinking of him
again. I shall never, never, consent to such a thing, never while I
am your mother. Remember my words now!'

"Oh! Lizzie, wasn't that awful, mamma is so hard on him! I--"

"Bertha, Bertha!" called a voice from the opposite side of the room,
which Bertha at once recognized as her mother's and immediately
turned toward Mrs. Levy, leaving Lizzie standing alone.

"For shame, my daughter!" said Mrs. Levy, in a low tone to Bertha,
"to keep Miss Heartwell standing talking all the evening about your
supposed present from Asher Bernhardt! I shall not allow you company
again until you improve in politeness, and I will destroy that
cherished book. Do you hear me? Go at once and see that Miss
Heartwell is seated."

Bertha bowed her head, in token of obedience, and as she turned back
to join Lizzie, Leah Mordecai was approaching the piano, accompanied
by Emile Le Grande.

Leah Mordecai was a superb singer, yet it was only at the request of
friends that her soul flowed forth in song. On this evening her
music was delicious, and Emile Le Grande, always fond of the divine
art, was bewitched with the beauty of her voice. When her singing
ceased, the sadness still rested upon her face, and in Emile's heart
there was a new-born sensation--that of pleasure mingled with fear.

The evening hours wore on. The hours that bore away the Jewish
Sabbath were rolling in the Christian day of rest, and Lizzie
Heartwell, in obedience to her uncle's request not to "tarry at her
pleasure too late," was the first to separate from the happy band.

An hour later, as the Citadel clock sounded the hour of midnight,
Judge Le Grande's carriage rolled rapidly toward the mansion of
Benjamin Mordecai, bearing home his beautiful daughter, escorted by
Emile Le Grande.

This night, as Lizzie Heartwell was slowly disrobing for the
remaining hours of slumber after her return home, she glanced into
the small mirror before her, and thought audibly--"Emile Le Grande
seemed quite charmed to-night with Leah; he hung around her like a
shadow, and part of the evening he seemed moody and almost
miserable. How strange if he should fall in love with her! She's a
grand girl. I don't think she could fancy Emile Le Grande. I wonder
why Leah called herself 'the despised' yesterday. Well, we shall
see."

Mrs. Levy's guests had departed, one by one, till the mother and
daughter were left alone in the deserted room.

"Mamma," Bertha said at length, shrugging her dainty figure, and
gazing thoughtfully into the fire, "I do believe that Emile Le
Grande is in love with Leah Mordecai, and she with him."

"Be ashamed, Bertha, to think of such a thing! I believe you are
insane on the subject of love. Have you forgotten that she is a
Mordecai."

"Oh! Love's love, mamma, Mordecai or not Mordecai! I think Emile Le
Grande a fine fellow."

"Would you be impudent, Bertha?" said her mother, eyeing her
sharply.

"Oh! not for the world, mamma. Do forgive me, if you think so, and
let us retire, for I have an awful task of study awaiting me
to-morrow."






CHAPTER IV.





EMILE LE GRANDE'S DIARY.

"SATURDAY night--by Jove! Sunday morning, I suppose I should write
it, to be strictly truthful. And I guess that orthodox people would
roll their pious eyes, and declare that I had better be in bed at
this hour, instead of writing in my journal. But it makes no
difference. I do not know whether it's the seventh or the first day
that I should observe as a day of rest. One suits me as well as the
other. So here goes for my journal.

"November 29, Saturday night. Yes, I'll write Saturday night, for
the looks of the thing. Just returned from Bertha Levy's
tea-party--went with my sister. Would not have gone but for the hope
of meeting Leah Mordecai. In the main, I hate Jews, but I must admit
here, Journal, that Mrs. Levy is as elegant a woman as I have ever
met; and Bertha, too, is a cunning creature, not beautiful and not
my fancy exactly, but withal a taking girl.

"But of all the beautiful women that I have seen in years, Jewish or
Christian, there's not one can compare with Leah Mordecai--such hair
and such eyes are seldom given to woman. Helen says that her hair
measures four feet in length! What a queenly poise to that elegant
head!

"But I swear there's a sadness about her face that I do not
comprehend. She certainly knows nothing of sorrow. It does not arise
from want; for she, of all maidens in this Queen City, is farthest
from that. Old Ben Mordecai has untold wealth, and there comes in
the 'marrow of the nut.' Of course, he is as stingy as a Jew can be;
but not with his daughter. Who has more elegant silks, velvets, and
diamonds than she? Rich! rich! Ha! what a glorious thing to be said
of one; but aside from old Mordecai's money, Leah is a superb woman;
one need never be ashamed of such a wife. I should not be.

"I must set myself to work to ascertain the trouble that must dwell
in her heart so constantly to becloud her face. I'll bribe Helen to
find out for me. It may be some unfortunate love affair--who knows?
I think I would like to put any fellow out of the way that might be
seeking her hand. I believe I would kill him, if necessary. Perhaps,
dear Journal, I should not have written that terrible monosyllable,
but as you tell no tales, I'll let it stand.

"Now, I must to bed, and sleep, if I can--sleep away some of the
tedious hours that lie between me and another sight of the fair
Leah.

"Already the clock strikes two."

"And Mark was not there to-night, as I had hoped and expected,"
sighed Leah, as she stood before the elegant dressing-case of her
bed-chamber, and laid aside the articles of her toilet, after the
revel was done. "Only another disappointment! And yet, I know that
Bertha invited him, and lie promised me to attend. I should not have
worn these ear-rings and this brooch, which were my mother's, had I
known Mark would have been absent. Oh, my angel mother!"

A tear stole slowly down her face, and fell upon the shining pearls
that she still clasped between her fingers. "Why did not the grave
cover us both? Why was I left alone and so desolate in the world?
Can it be that Mark has deceived me--Mark Abrams, the only friend in
the world that I implicitly trust? God only knows. I remember now,
how he looked at my mother--what mockery to call that woman
mother!--when I asked him if he would attend the tea-party. I
remember furthermore, that she followed him to the door after he
bade us adieu; and what words she may have let slip there, Heaven
only knows! I have had a lurking suspicion for some time, that she
was planning to win Mark's love from me, and secure it for my sister
Sarah. What if she should succeed. Oh! how wretched I should be! It
has been a year, nearly, since Mark and I secretly pledged our love,
and he promised then that we should be married soon after I finished
at Madam Truxton's. How fondly I have looked forward to that coming
day! It has been the one single hope of my miserable life; and now
that the time draws so near, is it possible that my dream must
vanish into nothingness? Must this heart taste the bitterness of
deception, among its other sorrows? Miserable girl that I am! Surely
some evil star shone over the hour and place of my birth. But I'll
hope on for the best, and still continue to look forward to the
coming day, when my life shall be separated from the wretched woman
who now so darkly overshadows my existence. I'll hope on, even
though disappointment come at last." The soliloquy ended, Leah laid
away the pearls in the velvet-lined case, and turned to slumber and
dreams.