Books: Leah Mordecai
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Mrs. Belle Kendrick Abbott >> Leah Mordecai
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"A secret-marster; a secret-dat-I have-kep'-so long-it has become-a
sin-an awful sin-dat has burnt-me in here," placing his feeble hand
on his heart, "like coals-of-fire. Listen to me."
"I knows-how-Mars'-Mark-Abrams got-killed, an'-has-known it-ever
since-dat-dark-Jinnewary-night-w'en he-was-shot--"
"Merciful--"
"Hush! listen-to-me-my-bref-werry-short," he said, motioning the
rabbi to silence, who had turned pale with consternation at the mere
mention of his son's name.
"Hush! Mars'-Mark-was not-murdered-as-everybody-thought-but-was-
killed-by-de pistol-he-carried-in his-pocket. It-was-werry dark
dat-night-as you-may-remember. He-was-passin'-tru'-de-Citadel
Square-to cut-off de walk-comin'-from Crispin's-he said, an'-in-de
dark-he-stumble-an' fall-an' de-pistol-go-off-an' kill him. In
de-early-morning-jus'-'for-day-as-I was-hurryin'-aroun'
wid-my-paper, I was-carryin' de Curyer den-bless-de-Lord, I
came-upon-him-an' 'fore God-he was-mos' dead. He call-me-and tell
me-how he-was-hurt, an' beg-me to run-for his-father, for-you,
Marster-Abrams. He ask-me-to pick up-de-pistol-an' run
for-you-quick. W'en I foun'-de pistol-I ask-him-another question.
He-said-nothin'. I knew-he-was-dead. I was-skeered-
awful-skeered-an'-somethin'-tole me-to-run-away. I did run-as-fast
as-I-could-an' w'en-I was-many-squars-off, I foun' de-pistol-in
my-hand. Dat-skeered me-agin. I stop-a minit-to think. I-was-awful
skeered-marster-an' den I 'cluded I jus' keep-de secret, an'
de-pistol-too-for-fear-people-might-'cuse-me ob de-murder. An'-so I
has-kept both-till now. See-here's de pistol-an' I'se-told you-der
truth;" and the old man felt about under his pillow for the weapon.
With difficulty he drew it out, and handing it to the rabbi, said:
"Take it-it's-haunted-me long-enough. It's jes' as I
found-it-dat-night-only-it's-mighty rusty. I'se had-it-buried-a
long time-for-safe-keepin'.
W'en-Mars'-Emile-Le Grande-was-here in-prison-'cused of-dis-crime,-I
often-wanted to tell-my-secret den-but-was-still-afeerd. I-knew
he-was-not guilty-an' I determined-he should-not be-punished. So I
helped-him-to 'scape-jail. I-set-him-free. I take-him-in de night
time-to one-of de-blockade-wessels-off de Bar. W'ere-he go from
dere, God knows-Ole Peter-don't. Now, Marster Abrams, I'se done.
Before-God-dis is-de truf. I'se told-it-at-las'. Tole all-an' now-I
die-happy.
"A-little-more-water-Marster Abrams-if you-please, an' den
Ole-Peter-will-soon-be-at-rest."
Silently granting this last request, the rabbi turned suddenly to
observe the entrance of the guide, who by this time returned.
Not a word was spoken a he entered.
By the side of the table, where lay the pistol, the rabbi and Mr.
Mordecai both sat down, each in turn eyeing the deadly weapon with
unuttered horror.
The dying negro's confession had filled them both with sorrow and
amazement. The earnestness of his labored story impressed them at
once with its undeniable truth; and with hearts distressed and
agitated, they sat in silence by the bed-side, till a struggle
arrested their attention. Looking up once more they both caught the
voiceless gaze of the earnest eye, which seemed unmistakably to say,
"I have told the truth. Believe my story. Farewell." Then the old
carrier's earthly struggles were forever ended.
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE strange, almost incredible, and yet evidently truthful
confession of old Peter, fell upon the heart of Mr. Mordecai with a
weight that broke its stubbornness, and at once softened his wrath
toward his unhappy and unfortunate daughter.
The thought that she was alone in the world, alone since the
mysterious disappearance of her husband from his Cuban home-alone
and undoubtedly struggling with life for existence, grew upon him
with maddening intensity. His heart became tender, and he resolved
to seek her face, and once again assure her of his love. Immediately
carrying out this good resolve, he sought her, first in Cuba, but
did not find her; and to his bitter disappointment, all his
subsequent efforts proved unavailing. Months passed, and grieving
from day to day over the unfilled hope of meeting her and atoning
for his severity by a manifold manifestation of tenderness, Mr.
Mordecai lived on in sorrow as the months slowly passed by.
He little dreamt that, not many leagues from his door, his lovely
daughter was performing, in weakness, in sorrow, even
broken-hearted, the wearisome task that gave daily bread to herself
and child.
And yet Leah had often seen her father, so changed by sorrow since
she last embraced him; seen him only to creep away into deeper
obscurity, dreading to confront his anger, and determined not to
meet his coldness. And so changed indeed was she, that not a single
soul among the scores she often passed, and who were once friends,
had ever suspected her identity. Such were the workings of sorrow
and misfortune.
In quiet Bellevue street in the Queen City, still stood the only
monument erected there during the war, that was worthy of
perpetuation. It was the Bellevue Street Home for the Friendless.
During the war, this institution was known as the Bellevue Street
Hospital, and there many brave soldiers perished, and many recovered
from ghastly wounds under the kindly care and attention of its
efficient managers.
After the first shock of her grief was passed, Eliza Heartwell
Marshall had been called to the position of matron in this
institution of mercy.
It should be mentioned that, by the death of a maternal uncle during
her married life, this noble woman had inherited a handsome estate,
consisting largely of valuable lands upon some of the fertile
islands adjacent to the coast.
Much of this land the government had appropriated to its own uses,
during the war; but upon the restoration of peace, by dint of
skilful negotiation the rightful owner had regained possession of
the confiscated property.
Thus Mrs. Marshall was enabled to carry on her noble work of
charity, after the carnage had ceased and the hospital was no longer
needed for the soldiers. So, endowing the Bellevue Hospital from her
own private funds, she transformed it at once into a Home for
receiving those who, by reason of misfortune, were unable to help
themselves.
Here, during the two years of peace that had smiled upon the
desolate waste left by the war, she had toiled, prayed, and wept
over the sufferings of humanity, till she was deemed, and rightly
so, an angel of mercy.
Time passed on. Though the Queen City had not regained its former
prosperity the Home prospered. Its charitable walls were full,
crowded even to their utmost capacity; its business pressing, its
necessities great.
"Miss Lizzie," said Maum Isbel one day, as the vigilant matron was
performing her accustomed round of duty, "Mrs. Moses, de lady who do
de small washin', have sent word that she is sick an' can't do it
dis week. De chile who came said she were wery sick, an' would like
to see you."
"Do you know where she lives, Maum Isbel?"
"No. 15 Market street, ma'am, de chile said; please remember."
"Get me another woman, Maum Isbel, to fill her place; the work
cannot stop. I will go at once to see her. Poor creature! She has
looked pale and delicate ever since she sought work at the Home."
Without delay, Mrs. Marshall hurried out on her mission of charity,
and tarried not until she stood confronting a low, miserable looking
tenement house on Market street. Her knock at the designated door
was answered by an untidy, rough-looking woman, who came into the
narrow dingy entry, and after eyeing the matron sharply, said
coarsely:
"What do you want?"
"Does Mrs. Moses live here?"
"Yes; but she's very poorly to-day; ain't been up at all. Indeed
she's been poorly for a week or more."
"Can I see her?"
"Yes, come in; she's in thar," pointing to a small room cut off from
the end of the narrow hall-way.
Mrs. Marshall approached the small room, and answered the summons of
a feeble voice that said, "Come in."
On entering the room, she found the woman prostrated on a low,
comfortless bed; pale, feeble, and exhausted. By the bed-side, on a
chair, were a phial and a Hebrew prayer-book.
"I am so glad you have come," said the sick woman, "I am so weak
this morning. You see I coughed all night. I felt that I must see
you. I hope it gave you no trouble to come."
"None whatever. Why have you not sent for me before?"
"I hoped, from day to day, to be strong enough to do the washing for
the Home again. But instead of growing better, I have grown worse
daily. Heaven only knows what I'll do when I cannot work."
"Where is your little daughter?"
"Gone to the baker's, to get me a warm bun. She fancied I could eat
one, dear child!"
Touched by these surroundings of poverty and distress, Mrs. Marshall
could scarcely repress her tears; but said:
"If you will allow me, I'll give you some brandy; that will revive
you."
"Indeed, I have none; I used the last drop yesterday."
"Then I beg that you will allow me to remove you to the Home till
you are recovered. There, under Dr. Gibbs's kind care, you may
convalesce rapidly. Here, you are suffering for every comfort, and
cannot hope to recover soon. I beg you to go."
For a moment, the sick woman made no reply, but her lips trembled
with emotion, and at length she said sadly:
"I fear I shall never be well again."
"Oh, yes; be cheerful. I promise that you shall want for nothing at
the Home."
"Can my child go with me there?"
"Yes, you will need her there, as you do here."
"But I have no money."
"There is none needed. Just promise to go, and I'll see that you are
removed at once."
Reluctantly and tearfully Mrs. Moses at last yielded to the matron's
entreaties, repeatedly assuring her that she would endeavor to pay
her, when she should regain her health and strength.
Mrs. Marshall remained a while, awaiting the return of the little
child. At length she came bounding in with a bright, happy face,
holding aloft the coveted bun, and exclaiming wildly, "See, mamma!
here it is, nice and warm. Eat it, mamma!"
The matron then departed, promising to make immediate preparations
for the mother's speedy removal.
CHAPTER XLIV.
IT was only two months after the kind matron of the Bellevue Home
had the invalid Mrs. Moses removed to its hospitable walls, before
she saw, with regret, that the life she sought to save was fast
passing away. The delicate frame was rapidly yielding to the
devastation of consumption. All the skill and attention of kind Dr.
Gibbs had proved unavailing. It was too evident that she must soon
die.
On the afternoon of a soft June day, succeeding a terrible night
with the invalid, Mrs. Marshall had withdrawn for a moment's rest
from the fatigue of watching and nursing. Her slumber was soon
broken, however, by Maum Isbel, who, unceremoniously thrusting her
head into her chamber, said in an excited tone:
"Miss Lizzie! Miss Lizzie! Mis' Moses says she would like to see you
at once. She seem werry bad to me, ma'am, werry bad indeed; she's so
weak!"
"Hasn't the doctor come yet, maum Isbel? I have been expecting him
this hour," replied Mrs. Marshall, arising and preparing to go at
once to her patient.
"Not yet, ma'am."
"If he comes, send him in at once; but I feel sure he can do the
poor woman no good now. Her life is nearly done." Maum Isbel sighed,
and dropped a tear at these ominous words; and then she shambled
along into ward number two, to inspect the washing that Mark Antony
Briggs, a colored man of her acquaintance, was doing there. There
she grew garrulous over the demerits of the work, and soon forgot
her emotion and her sympathy for the invalid. In the meantime, Mrs.
Marshall hastened to the sick-room, and softly entered.
By the bedside sat the pale-faced little child, holding her mother's
hand, and bestowing upon it kiss after kiss of fervent love.
"Mamma, here is good Mrs. Marshall come in again. Mamma! mamma! wake
up," said the little girl as Mrs. Marshall entered.
Startled by the sound, the sick woman roused from her uneasy
slumber, and turned her heavenly dark eyes, so lustrous and bright,
full upon the face of the matron. Her eyes for an instant flashed,
then filled with tears, and dropped again. There was a strange,
mysterious expression in that one gaze, that thrilled the heart of
Eliza, and filled it with sorrow. "What can I do for you now, dear
Mrs. Moses?" she said with feeling. "The doctor will be here soon."
Lifting her emaciated arms, her body shaking convulsively, the
invalid said, in a tone shrill with emotion, "Come here! Come near
to me, Lizzie Heartwell! Come to these dying arms of mine! I can
hold out no longer!" Confounded at these singular words, and the
more singular demonstration of an undemonstrative woman, Mrs.
Marshall shrank back, and the invalid continued, "Come to me;
nearer! nearer! I can hold out no longer. God knows how hard I've
struggled! Lizzie Heartwell, don't you know me? Have you never
suspected your long-lost Leah? Have my disgrace and degradation
wiped out my identity? In Heaven's name, is there not one trace of
resemblance left to the friend who loved you so much in our happy
school days? O Lizzie Heartwell, I am indeed your long-lost Leah!
Your unfortunate, heart-broken Leah! Your forsaken, despised Leah!
Your dying, dying Leah Mordecai! Is there no trace left, not one?
Here, see this-this hated scar. Do you know me now, dear Lizzie?"
Lizzie, who, terrified at these startling words, had stood like a
statue, sprang forward when the pale hand pushed back the hair and
revealed the scar, exclaiming:
"Is it you, my long-loved Leah, my own Leah Mordecai? In pity's
name, why this disguise? Why this cruel deception upon me, upon your
faithful Lizzie, whose heart, like your own, has been wounded and
bleeding so long? Tell me, dearest, tell me while you can; tell
Lizzie Heartwell again of your sorrows."
"Am I not dying, Lizzie?" inquired Leah with a shudder, "I fear I
cannot tell you all. My time is so short. But I could not die
without one uttered word of thankfulness, without one kiss of
recognition and love! This, Lizzie dear, is the end of my unhappy
life; this the end of the wrong-doing of others; this the end of
disobedience-the bitter, bitter end. It's been a hard, hard
struggle, Lizzie, between pride and love, for me to throw off my
disguise; but love has at length triumphed, love for this sweet
child," she said, laying her hand tenderly upon her little
daughter's head. "I could not die, and leave her entirely to
strangers. When I have told you all I can of my story, then I shall
hope for mercy from you for this child. It has seemed so dark and
fearful to me, this untried, unknown life into which I must so soon
enter! God knows how I tremble in His presence."
"Have you tried to pray, dear Leah?"
"Yes, dear; but still all was dark, dark, dark-is dark yet."
"Be calm, dear, and let me listen to the story of your life. Tell me
what steps have led you at last to this strange end. Be calm, and
tell me slowly. I would know it all."
"Be patient then, and listen. I'll keep nothing back. If God gives
me strength to tell it, I'll tell you all." Then faintly she began
her sad narrative, and unreservedly unfolded the story of her life,
from the unfortunate day of her marriage, on through each succeeding
year of sorrow, till she came at last, tremulously, to its sad
close. Calmly she told how her father had discarded her; of the
removal of her husband's father to France, where his family still
remained; of Emile's misfortune, persecution, and forced desertion,
of his innocence; of her hopeless longing to see him; of her despair
as the conviction settled upon her that she could not hope to hear
from him again; of the harrowing suspense that had slowly eaten out
her life; of her penury and want--"and now, thank God," she said,
"you will see the end."
Lizzie wept at the story, and when it was ended, she said lovingly,
"Leah, dear, let me send for your father? I know he would come."
"Alas! the chillness of death is upon me, and the thought of dying
without his forgiveness is terrible! Would not his blessing dispel
this awful gloom, dear Lizzie? Ah! a soul in the presence of its God
is a helpless, pitiable thing!"
"Our Father is a God of love and mercy, Leah; trust His goodness."
"I prayed last night from my prayer-book, but still all was dark.
Won't you pray, dear Lizzie? Pray for my father to come, with
forgiveness, and that his blessing may banish this gloom-this
mysterious gloom. Pray for me, Lizzie, pray for me now; and then you
may send for him. But stop! My child! Lizzie, my child! What will
become of her? Will you not take her? Will you not keep her? Will
you not love her for my sake? I could not give her to another. Tell
me, dear. It's growing-oh! so chilly!"
Eliza softly murmured, "Before Heaven, Leah, I solemnly promise to
deal with your child as I would have others deal with mine. Give
yourself no further sorrow for her, Leah."
"Thank God! and now, you may pray for me; pray that the gloom may be
dispelled, and this death-chamber brightened by my father's
forgiveness. Here, clasp my hands. Kneel close to me. I would catch
every word. A shadow seems to hang upon everything! Now."
Thrilled with emotion, Eliza sank upon her knees, and with one arm
embracing the sobbing child, the other hand clasping the dying
woman's, she prayed:
"Eternal God, our Heavenly Father, in weakness, in darkness, and yet
in confidence, we appeal unto Thee for succor. In life, as in death,
we are dependent upon Thy mercy and love, and yet, ever unmindful of
Thy goodness, we must constantly implore Thy forgiveness.
"Grant now, dear Father-now, in this dark hour of dissolving
nature-a clear and sustaining view of Thy goodness and mercy.
"Draw very near, compassionate God, with assurances of Thy full and
free pardon. Dispel with Thy brightness the darkness of death that
now enshrouds a helpless soul; and take it, in Thy boundless love,
into everlasting rest. Manifest Thy forgiveness, O God, for the
deeds done in the body, and sanctify this soul for the habitation of
Thy Saints. As earth has been dark and sorrowful, may heaven be
bright and blessed; and may faith be given now, in this hour of
awful extremity-faith to dispel the gloom that now veils Thy
goodness, mercy, and power.
"Give light, light, O God, for darkness and terror, and peace and
joy for apprehension and mourning. Eternal, ever-blessed,
unchangeable God, send now Thy Spirit and manifest Thy forgiveness.
O Father, let Thy sacrifice avail! Pity, too, the helpless orphan,
compassionate Father, and like a mantle wrap Thy love about it.
Guide its footsteps with wisdom, direct its way with love, and may
it live to Thy honor and glory. Hear us in our weakness,
helplessness, and sinfulness, and to Thy eternal Being be
everlasting honor and glory. Amen."
Releasing the little child, and unclasping the dying hand, Eliza
rose and said:
"Now, Leah, I'll send for your father."
"Well. Be quick!" and as a seraphic smile overspread her face, she
added, "Leave me alone till he comes, Lizzie, but be quick. I would
see him now, now; all is light, light, light! Joy, love, peace-at
last."
An hour later, Mr. Mordecai-in answer to a message saying that his
daughter was dying at the Bellevue Home, and wished to see him-came
tottering into the hall-way, his face expressive of the deepest
sorrow; his head had grown venerable and gray, his form was bent
beneath a weight of grief that might have crushed a heart of stone.
Not a word was spoken, as he silently took the hand of Mrs.
Marshall, who met him at the threshold, and led the way to Leah's
chamber. The expression of his face told the anguish of his heart.
Noiselessly entering the room, they found that the little child had
fallen asleep on the foot of its mother's bed, exhausted with
weeping. The coverlet was drawn carelessly over Leah's face,
concealing her features. Softly approaching her, Lizzie tremblingly
turned the coverlet back. Alas! she was dead.
On the bosom of the dead, as she was being prepared for burial, was
found the miniature of her mother, the birth-day gift of years ago.
The jewels were gone. One by one they had been removed from their
places, to answer the imperative demands of hunger and want. But the
face, the beloved face of the mother, had ever been pressed to the
heart of the unhappy daughter. And now, it was not to be removed,
even by death itself; for the agonized father, beholding the
evidence of Leah's devotion, said, "As she kept it in life, so shall
she keep it in death. Place it again on her bosom. Thank God, I
shall soon sleep beside her in the quiet burying-ground of my
people; and may the eternal God forgive my sin toward her."
THE END.
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