Books: Leah Mordecai
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Mrs. Belle Kendrick Abbott >> Leah Mordecai
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"When will Scipio return?" inquired Leah timidly.
"Mebbe in a week, mebbe sooner."
"Oh! I cannot stay here a week. I cannot stay a day. I am so
impatient to get on. If my husband is living, I must reach him."
"But how can you go, chile?"
"Go alone, Uncle Jack. I assure you I am not afraid."
By Jupiter! Jack Marner let a weakly lookin' woman like you start
alone from his house, with no strong arm to pertect you? Never,
never, never!" exclaimed the kind old man with emphasis, as he shook
his gray locks.
"But there is no one to go with me, Uncle Jack; and as I cannot
tarry, I must go alone. I assure you I fear nothing."
The old man continued to shake his head, though he made no reply;
and then, handing little Sarah to her mother, he went out of the
cabin for some wood, that was needed to prepare the evening meal.
Night passed, and morning came soft and bright; and Leah, refreshed
from her slumber, expressed the determination to pursue her journey
at once.
"If you will go, the Lord go with you, chile; but I fears you will
never git thar. Twenty miles from here, you may find lodgings, and
you may not; what then?"
"Oh, I can take care of that; only give me the proper directions, if
you can."
"Keep nigh the coast as possible, an' if nothin' devours you, you'll
find the Queen City after awhile; but it's more'n a hundred mile,
remember. I hate to see you go, I do."
"Do not detain me, Uncle Jack. I cannot, must not stay."
"Well, if go you must and will, I'll go with you till we reach the
open road; but I say again, you are welcome to stay here in my
cabin, if you will. It's humble, I know, but old Jack Marner has had
a sight better home than this, in his day. Yet I thank the Lord I
have this one left;" and the old man brushed away a tear with his
trembling hand, as he assisted the old woman in preparing some food
for Leah's lonely journey. At an early hour they were ready to
start. Uncle Jack took little Sarah in his arms, and Leah bade adieu
to the kind old wife, and following Uncle Jack, stepped out upon the
sandy beach and turned her face toward the far-off, hidden road.
For an hour or more, the pedestrians trudged slowly along, Uncle
Jack endeavoring the while to amuse the child in his arms, who would
ever and anon stretch out its little arms and cry, "Mamma." With
downcast eye and heart, Leah moved steadily forward, heeding
nothing, save the occasional cry of her child. Uncle Jack, as he
walked along, had broken a green bough from a swamp-myrtle, and
gathered a spray of blue winter berries, which he bound together as
a nosegay for the child. With these he charmed its baby fancy, and
foiled every endeavor to reach its mother's arms. At length the
trail was ended, and the open road reached.
"Now," said Uncle Jack, "we are here at last. This is the road that
leads to Sheltonville, the only place that lies in your way to the
Queen City. Keep it straight, chile, an' mebbe you'll reach thar at
last; mebbe not; I don't know. Here, let's rest a minit under this
water-oak. Sit down on the log; I'll warrant there's no snakes under
it."
Leah slightly smiled as she obeyed this command, and sat down on the
crumbling, moss-grown wood, saying:
"Uncle Jack, are there any rivers in my way to the Queen City?"
"None, chile, but the Little Black, and you kin cross that at
Sheltonville. It's a wonder those dev'lish soldiers hain't destroyed
the bridge, 'fore this; but they hadn't, the last I heered from
Sheltonville."
"Oh, I can get across, I guess," replied Leah cheerfully. "Rivers,
nor mountains either, can keep me from my husband now. If he is in
the city, I shall find him." Here little Sarah began to cry, and
show signs of weariness. In vain Uncle Jack flourished the wild
nosegay, whistled, sang, chirruped; the little creature would find
lodgment in its mother's arms, and sleep on her faithful bosom.
The sun was getting toward the half-way morning hour, when the
little child awoke, and clinging around her mother's neck she
cunningly averted her face from Uncle Jack, as if to say, "You shall
not have me again. I am tired of your wild nosegay."
"Well now," said Uncle Jack, "the little creetur is awake agin, and
as spry as a cricket. Come to Uncle Jack, won't ye?"
"I must be going," said Leah. "It's getting late." And rising with
the child in her arms, she drew the small bundle of food and
clothing that she carried closer to her, and said, "I am ready.
Good-by. Keep straight ahead, must I?"
"Yes, chile," replied Uncle Jack in a tremulous voice, "straight
ahead, and the good Lord be with ye."
Leah was gone. She followed the sandy road pointed out by Uncle
Jack's trembling finger, followed it till a small morass, thick with
swamp-growth, hid her from his view; and then the old man said, as
he turned sorrowfully back toward his cabin, "Poor chile, she seems
to have a lot o' trouble in this troublesome world. And she's so
young and purty, too. I thank the Lord there's a world up
yonder"--and he cast his tear-dimmed eyes above--"where no more
trouble will never come; an' may ole Jack Marner be lucky enough to
git thar."
For ten long, weary days, Leah pursued the way that lay straight and
unobstructed before her, every step bringing her nearer and nearer
to the city of her childhood. Scarcely able, much of the time, to
obtain food by day, or lodging by night, still she undauntedly
pursued her way, and kept her eyes straight forward toward the end.
Foraging parties, and straggling soldiers, passed occasionally, yet
not one syllable of disrespect or insult was offered to the lonely
woman as she passed along, the living impersonation of unfriended
helplessness.
At length, in pain, in weariness, in tears, the journey was almost
accomplished, and the evening of the tenth day was closing in. The
stars were stealing, one by one, into the blue heavens above, and
the bright lights of a hundred camp-fires, far and near, announced
the welcome fact that the Queen City was near at hand. The stray
shot, too, of some vigilant sentinel, reminded her that, without
passports, one could not easily find ingress to the once peaceful,
hospitable city. As this thought came, Leah trembled; but she passed
forward undaunted to the dreaded sentry line that stretched itself
across her pathway. She was too weary to weep, too bewildered to
think, too anxious to do aught but look forward toward the advancing
city, with its myriad lights, and then down again at the innocent
child asleep on her bosom. Upon the breeze that came to greet her,
as if in kindly welcome, she caught the note of the old familiar
music of the chimes of St. Angelo. "Home, Sweet Home" rang out upon
her weary ear with all the sweetness and familiarity of by-gone
days.
"How changed is everything here; and, alas! how changed am I," said
she; and tottering beneath the burden of her child and the awakened
weight of memories, she would have fallen exhausted to the earth,
but for a sharp, ringing voice, that said:
"Halt! Who comes there?"
Recalled to a sense of her true situation by this unexpected
inquiry, Leah summoned the remnant of her strength and courage, and
replied, "Only a woman, weak and tired. In heaven's name let me
pass."
"Advance, and give the countersign."
"I cannot! indeed I cannot! But in mercy's name, give me rest and
food within the City this night," she replied with a despairing
voice.
"Whence do you come?"
"From Sandy Bar, some hundred miles away, and I have walked the
whole distance. I bring you no ill, or good news. I am nothing but a
poor, helpless woman, faint and famishing. I pray you, in the name
of pity, let me pass, kind sentinel."
Touched by these imploring words, the sentry looked furtively around
him, and replied softly, "Woman, be quick. Go on; and mind, if you
say that I passed you without the countersign, my head will pay the
forfeit. Go on, for Tom Marbray hasn't the heart to say no to such a
looking woman as you are."
"God bless you!" murmured Leah; "bless you a thousand-fold;" and she
hurried forward, and was soon lost in the winding streets of the
city, that was now overshadowed by the darkness of night.
Once more within the familiar limits of the old city, she paused,
and leaning against the angle of a shop, looked curiously about her,
as if endeavoring to define certain localities. At length she said
softly:
"Yes, I see the Citadel, and Christ Church spire. But I must rest.
I'll enter yonder inn." She stepped forward toward a shabby looking
tavern a few doors off, where a crowd of garrulous soldiers were
grouped about the door. Too weary to observe any one, Leah staggered
into the forlorn, miserably furnished reception-room of the Good
Cheer House, and called for food and lodging for herself and child
for the night.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE ruddy beams of an October sun shone through the one window of
the little rudely furnished room that Leah occupied in the inn.
Weary from her long, toilsome journey, she still slept. Though tired
nature for a time resisted the intrusion of the garish sunlight, the
chirruping of her little child at length aroused Leah to
consciousness. The tiny, dimpled hands were tangled in the long
black hair that hung about the mother's shoulders in dishevelled
grace, and the merry child laughed gleefully as the mother awoke.
"Is my bird always ready to sing?" said Leah tenderly, as she beheld
the innocent, happy child by her side. "May you never know a note of
sadness, my love; sing on, while you may." Then Leah sadly turned
her eyes upward to the cracked, stained wall overhead, and faintly
murmured, "Here I am at last, alone-alone in the Queen City,
friendless and penniless-alone in the place where I once possessed
thousands-alone in my search for the only being who loves me, in
this wide world-alone, with nothing to cheer me but my own faithful,
resolute heart. When that fails me I shall find rest. Poor, beloved
Emile!"
Overcome by weariness, anxiety, and fear, Leah covered her face with
the coarse brown coverlet of her bed, and wept and sobbed in very
bitterness of heart. At length, astonished at the withdrawal of its
mother's smile, the child cried; and ceasing to weep, Leah clasped
the helpless creature to her bosom in a fond, impassioned embrace.
"God keep you, blessed one!" she said with deepest pathos. "Heaven
shield you, my angel, from such sorrow as now fills your mother's
heart! But I must be up and doing. Weeping will not accomplish the
end and object of my coming."
Arising resolutely, she hastily performed their simple toilets, and
descended the narrow stairway to the breakfast-room.
The plain repast was soon over, the coarse, garrulous inmates of the
inn departed, and Leah with her child sat alone in the ill-furnished
reception-room. She had sent a wiry-looking little negro boy for the
proprietor, and was awaiting his appearance. Suddenly a thump,
thump, thump, sounded along the narrow entry, and a short,
red-faced, bald-headed, pompous looking old man, with a wooden leg,
stood before her.
"Madam," he said, bowing obsequiously, "is it yourself that desired
my presence? Cricket told me-we call that limber-looking little
nigger Cricket-that a lady desired to see me in the drawing-room."
"Whom have I the honor of addressing?" said Leah, with difficulty
repressing a smile excited by the grotesque appearance of the man.
"I desired to see the proprietor."
"Exactly so, madam, and my name is Michael Moran, the proprietor of
the Good Cheer House these twenty years."
"And have you remained in the Queen City during all these dreadful
months of shelling?" said Leah, whose heart was at once brightened
by the hope that she might gather some desired information from him.
"Oh, yes, child-beg pardon, madam, but, really, you look like a
child. Michael Moran is not the man to desert the post of duty in
times of danger. You see, madam"--and he pointed to the wooden
stump--"you see, I had the misfortune to lose a member in the Mexican
war. That wooden stump speaks yet of Michael Moran's bravery, and I
am the same brave man to-day that I was in 'forty-seven, always
ready to serve my country."
"Yes," replied Leah, "but you are too old to do much for your
country now."
"Yes; that is to say, I am not able to take up arms, but then I have
done valiant service by furnishing a very comfortable, thoroughly
respectable wayside home for my country's unfortunate children. You
see, madam, the Good Cheer House is known far and near as the place
to find good food and lodging, at very reasonable prices. The
soldiers-alas! I know what a soldier's life is," and the old man
laid his fat, plump hand on his heart, "the soldiers, I say, find
out the house of Michael Moran, and enjoy the good cheer he
dispenses."
The old man, once started, would have continued his remarks ad
infinitum, had not Leah bravely interrupted him by asking:
"Can you tell me, sir, if any of the refugees have yet returned?"
"A good many, madam. You see this infernal old shelling, although
it's pretty pesky business, hasn't done much harm, after all. It
battered down a few fine houses, and killed some men, but then I
don't believe the Queen City will never surrender; and by Erin I
hope it never will. If the soldiers, to a man, possessed the heart
of Michael Moran, they would stand out till--"
"Can you tell me anything of the Le Grande family-Judge Le Grande, I
mean?" again interrupted Leah bravely.
"The judge? Oh, yes; I think they went to France some months ago,"
replied Michael, with an air of profound satisfaction at possessing
some slight acquaintance with so distinguished a man as the judge;
and patting his knee with his plump hand, he continued, "You see the
judge was not particularly a war man, and--"
"Do you know anything of the Levys?" again cut short the old
inn-keeper's volubility.
"The Levys? Oh, yes; they fled long ago, and are now roving the face
of the earth. The bombs well-nigh tore down old Levy's house, and I
guess that will about kill him, as he is as stingy as a man well can
be. If he had stayed by his suffering city, as Michael Moran has--"
"But Mrs. Levy was a widow," interrupted Leah, seeing that the old
man was coining his information as he went, for the purpose of his
own exaltation. "Her husband has been dead these many years."
Determined not to be baffled in this quiet way, Michael replied,
"Well, this was another man, madam," and fearing Leah might
discredit his fabricated story, he added, "I swear by Erin it was
another man."
"Well, sir, can you tell me anything of the Mordecai family-Mr.
Benjamin Mordecai?" said Leah, with a slightly tremulous voice.
The old man's eye brightened up, and he slapped his fat hand upon
his knee with renewed force and rapidity, and replied, with an
inquisitive squint in his face, "Are you a Jew?"
"I am a Jewess, sir," she said softly. "I feel an interest in my
people. What can you tell me of the Mordecais."
"Well, child, then listen to me again. I say emphatically madam,
now. Well, old Ben Mordecai he was a mighty rich man, had a bank
many, many years, and lots and piles of gold. In fact, he was my
banker at one time in my life, and to-day he can testify as to
whether Michael Moran was or wasn't a thrifty man and the Good Cheer
House a paying institution. Some years ago though, I moved my
business to another bank, ahem!" Here the old man eyed Leah sharply,
to see if these hints respecting his pecuniary status did not
impress her profoundly. Then he continued, "Well, I was about
stating-Well, where was I?" he said, with a puzzled look of regret,
as though he had lost, or was about to lose, some cherished remark,
so bewildering had been the thought in reference to his money
matters, "where was I?"
"You were speaking of Mr. Mordecai's having left the Queen City,"
kindly suggested Leah, seeing the old man's embarrassment.
"Oh yes; my head gets a little muddy sometimes," said the inn-keeper
apologetically, as he rubbed his rosy hand, this time briskly across
the bald, sleek surface of his head. "Well, the Mordecais went
away, and I am told a poor family moved into the old man's house to
protect it. But the other week, a shell came whizzing into the city
and tore off one corner of his fine house. I tell you, madam, the
old man had a fine house, sure. And, madam, old Mordecai had a fine
guirl once, and a few years ago she ran away and married some
fellow, and it well-nigh broke the old man's heart. They ran away,
and went somewhere; I think it was to the Island of Cuby. My banker
told me this. You see, madam, my resources are yet such, that my
banking business is quite burdensome to me. The Good Cheer House is
a fine paying institution, sure, and--"
"But what of the unfortunate daughter?" inquired Leah faintly.
"Well, as I was about remarking, they went away to Cuby, and some
months ago, perhaps a year or so, they caught the scamp out there,
and smuggled him to this country, to be punished for a murder he
committed some years ago, long before he was married."
Leah's heart throbbed wildly in her bosom, and every limb trembled
like an aspen; but the old man did not detect her emotion, and
continued:
"He will soon be tried here. I hear the friends of the dead man and
the Mordecais are pushing up the trial. When the trial comes off, I
guess the banker's family will come back."
"Is the unfortunate man confined in the old city prison here?"
inquired Leah, with a faltering voice.
"Yes, madam. At one time a shell struck the old prison, and some of
the inmates came nigh escaping, but they have had it repaired, and
now it's pretty full, sure. If a bomb could strike it, and finish
all the inmates at once, I guess that would suit them. I don't know
why else they keep that jail full of thieves and murderers. I am too
busy with my wayside house, giving cheer and comfort to my
unfortunate countrymen, to bother much about the jail-birds. Yes,
Michael Moran is too busy for that."
"What is my bill, sir?" said Leah faintly, oblivious of the wordy
Michael's harangue, and thinking only of the prison-the dim, dark
prison, where her husband was languishing. "I have no money but
gold," she continued; "how much do I owe you for my food and
lodging?"
"Gold!" repeated Michael with eager emphasis; and then, as if
fearing to betray his characteristic love of the shining ore, he
added with an air of indifference, "well, I guess, as you have
nothing else, gold will do. you owe me--" and he named a certain sum.
"Remarkable low price. Michael Moran hasn't the heart to be hard on
a woman; and I know you'll be sorry, to your dyin' day, that you had
to quit the Good Cheer House so soon."
Leah made no reply and evinced no regret, as she handed out, from
her low supply of money, the amount demanded. Hurrying away from the
inn, with the child in her arms, she hastened forward toward the
dismal jail that, as she well remembered, was many streets away.
On the same bright October morning that opened the eyes of Leah in
the Queen City, Emile Le Grande was pacing to and fro in his prison
cell at an early hour. The confinement of so many long, weary months
had left its impress on every feature; and pale and emaciated he
scarcely resembled his former self. Before him, on a tin platter,
was the coarse prison breakfast, as yet untasted. Restless and
miserable, he trod backward and forward within the narrow limits of
his cell, now glancing up at the sunlight that streamed through the
narrow window so far above his head, then turning his ready ear to
catch the sound of every human footstep that trod the corridors, or
moved in the adjoining cells of this wretched place.
Despair had settled upon him, and death was a coveted visitor. "Is
it myself," he muttered, as he convulsively ran his fingers through
his hair, grown long from neglect, "or is it some other unfortunate
wretch? Have I a wife and child on a far-off foreign shore, or is
this thought a horrid, hideous nightmare, that comes to harrow my
brain? O birds of the air, I envy you! O breezes that wander, I envy
you! O sunlight, that streams through my window, give me my freedom,
my freedom, I pray!"
Overpowered by these thoughts, the wretched man, enfeebled in mind
as well as body, sank down upon the hard pallet, when the sound of
footsteps was again heard along the corridor, coming nearer, nearer,
nearer to his cell door. Startled, Emile heard the bolt draw back
once more and the door open, and the jailer stood before him.
"Le Grande," he said, "there's a woman below says she must see you-a
beggar; shall I bring her up?"
"Yes, man, in the name of mercy, bring her up. I'd see a dog that
would come to me in this lonely place. Bring her up, beggar or not,
though I have nothing to give her."
The jailer withdrew, and Emile's heart beat wildly from the strange
announcement that even a beggar wished to see him in his
wretchedness now.
Again the footsteps resounded in the corridor, coming nearer,
nearer, nearer, to the cell.
Emile had risen from his pallet, and searching in his pocket said,
"I haven't even so much as a fourpence for the poor old soul."
The cell door opened. Emile saw the jailer, and a woman with a
child. His eye flashed bright, his heart leaped to his throat. The
woman's face grew paler, and tottering forward she fell upon the
prisoner's bosom, and gasped, "My husband!"
He said, "Thank God. My wife! my wife! my child!"
CHAPTER XXXIX.
IT were impossible to chronicle the half that transpired in the
eventful days of those eventful years. Days seemed months, and
months seemed years, in their sad, slow progress. When the heart is
happy, Time's wing is light, but as every soul was sorrowful in
those dark days, so the progress of the years was slow and dreary.
To none was the time so dark, and hopeless, as to Emile while he
languished in prison, and to Leah, as she waited for an uncertain
reunion. But the hopeless days had passed, and in unutterable joy
the husband and wife clasped each other again. Now, she was never to
leave him till the stern fiat of the law should decide his guilt or
innocence. In an obscure abode, within the very shadow of the jail,
Leah obtained a temporary home. The inadequacy of her means would
have forbidden her more comfortable accommodations. But she desired
only to dwell in obscurity, and be near, and with her husband, in
his loneliness and misfortune. Without comment or observation, she
passed in and out of the jail as frequently as the stern prison-law
would allow. The jailer was a man who had occupied a higher position
in life, and had sought this place to evade the merciless grasp of
conscription. Often had he wondered at the pale, lovely face of this
unhappy wife, and marked her tenderness toward the child that never
seemed to weary the faithful arms that bore it so constantly about.
"That woman has a history," the jailer often said to himself.
But the days passed, and ere Leah had been a month within the Queen
City, the trial was at hand. Pressing measures in these awfully
chaotic times, Mr. Mordecai was about to bring his culprit to
justice, from fear that delay would prove dangerous, if not
disastrous, to his purposes.
"My darling," said Emile to his wife, the day before the proposed
trial, "I desire that you shall not be present during the
investigation of to-morrow. I fear you may be subjected to insult
and indignity which I cannot resent, being in bonds. Besides, dear,
you can do me no good."
"Will my father be there, Emile?"
"I suppose that he will."
"Then I cannot be present. I feel that I could never meet my
father's eye, unless I knew I had his forgiveness and his love
still. But how can I leave you?"
"Remain quietly, dear, at your boarding-place, and await, hopefully,
the end. I trust it will all be right. I know I am innocent," said
Emile, with a forced effort at cheerfulness.
"Heaven grant they may find you guiltless! But oh! Emile, I fear, I
fear, I fear something-I cannot tell you how it is, but from the day
you were taken from our happy Cuban home, not a ray of hope has
illuminated my heart."
"You must be brave, Leah, your sadness will weigh me down, and I
cannot, must not go into the presence of my accusers with aught but
a look of defiant innocence. Be brave, be cheerful, for my sake, and
the sake of our innocent child."
"Can I see you during the trial?"
"I suppose not; but as it will consume but a few days at most, you
can remain quietly at your lodgings till the end."
"The twilight is gathering in your window, Emile," said Leah, after
a thoughtful silence. "I should have gone an hour ago; your supper
will be late to-night, dear; but oh! I fear to leave you! It seems
as though you were going to your burial, to-morrow. What will become
of me? What will become of our helpless darling?"
Distracted by the plaintive words and agonized look of his wife,
Emile said:
"Would you madden me, Leah? Have I not asked you to be brave, even
unto the end? If you falter now, I am lost. My health and my
strength are already gone. Only the consciousness of innocence
sustains me. Leave me now. Sheer me with the hope of acquittal, and
be brave as only a woman can be."
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