Books: Leah Mordecai
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Mrs. Belle Kendrick Abbott >> Leah Mordecai
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"The door closed behind her, and I was alone in my misery and my
wrath. In my bitterness I cursed the woman who thus dared to crush a
helpless little worm beneath her wicked foot, and, falling on my
face again, I implored the great God to let me die, to take me to
that mother whom I so deeply mourned.
"It's growing chilly out here, Lizzie," continued Leah after a
pause; "suppose we leave the corridor, and find shelter in the hall
of the wing. We can sit in the great window at the end of the hall,
overlooking the sea. There we shall be secure from intrusion."
Lizzie bowed assent, and after the two girls were snugly seated in
the great window, Leah continued her story:
"She has kept the miniature to this day, and for three long years,
no matter how my eyes have longed for a glimpse of that sweet face,
I have never dared to ask for it. Many times she has worn it, in
great state, in her treacherous bosom, my father always supposing
that I loaned it as a special token of affection,--such, at least,
was the story she told him, and I have never dared contradict her."
As Leah finished this incident, her dark eye seem to kindle with a
new light and a quiver ran through her frame. She added, with
strange emphasis:
"One thing I would say, Lizzie, before passing from this subject,
and mark my words; my spirit is not so broken nor my sense of
justice so blunted but that one day I shall have that miniature
again. I have sworn it, and as I live, I'll keep my vow. But I must
hasten on; it is already growing late. I come now to the last and
sorest trouble of my life.
"For many years I have known Mark Abrams, the son of our rabbi. We
have been children and friends together, almost from the time my
mother died. He was always so gentle and kind to me in his boyhood,
that I often wondered what the world would be without Mark Abrams in
it. He was always the object of my childish admiration, and, indeed,
the only friend I ever had who dared, or cared to show me any
kindness. A year ago now; a little more than a year, he whispered to
me a tender tale of love, and my poor heart thrilled with ecstasy at
his words. Yes, he asked me to become his wife, when my school days
should be ended, and I promised him that I would.
"No one knew at that sweet time, of his love for me. I did not dream
of it myself, till he told me--surprised me, with the unexpected
revelation. I begged that our happiness be kept a secret until my
school days were finished. This was my fatal mistake. You know our
people have few secret engagements, and if I had only allowed Mark
to speak to my father at first, then all would have been well. But
the enemy has at last overtaken me, and I fear I am conquered and
ruined forever. For some months I have thought that my step-mother
suspected my secret, and have imagined that I could detect her
intention to break the attachment if she found her suspicion to be
correct. Her every action has betrayed this intention. I have at
times vaguely hinted my trials and sorrows to Mark, but of the
extent of that woman's evil designing, he has had no conception. I
was ashamed to acquaint him fully with her true character. Would
that I had, dear Lizzie! would that I had, long ago! My fears that
Mark was being led into the subtle web of that evil woman's weaving,
and would surely be taken from me, were confirmed by his absence
from Bertha Levy's tea-party. He promised me to attend, and my
step-mother offered some inducement that kept him away. To resist
her will, one must have the strength of a Hercules.
"Lizzie! Lizzie! I cannot tell you more; the sequel of my fears is
too dreadful to unfold! Even yet, my poor heart struggles to
disbelieve it." Leah dropped her head for a moment, while a sigh
escaped her tremulous lips, and was silent.
"Go on, dear Leah. Tell me all," said Lizzie.
And Leah continued. "For a long time I have been perplexed to know
where my step-mother kept the key to a small cabinet drawer that I
believed contained my long-hidden miniature. By diligent search, I
found it the day after Bertha's party, and, feeling unusually
unhappy, I determined, if possible, to see my mother's face once
more. It was Sunday, and that night we were invited to some private
theatricals at Mr. Israel Bachman's, whose daughter had just
returned from school. You may remember his house on Vine street. I
declined to attend. By remaining at home, I thought I could
accomplish my purpose of discovering the hidden treasure.
"The cabinet was placed in the large closet attached to the
sitting-room. To explore it, I must conceal myself in the closet.
After the family departed, leaving me sole occupant of the house, a
friend called. When her visit ended, I was interrupted again by the
servant, so that it was late before I could begin my secret work. At
last all was quiet, and my explorations began. First one key, and
then another, was applied to the lock, but without success. I worked
away hopefully, knowing the right one would come in turn if I were
not interrupted. Drawer after drawer was opened and when the right
keys were at last found, not one yielded up the coveted prize. I
trembled with fear of disappointment. Only one remained to be
opened; what if that were empty, too? Slowly and with trembling hand
I applied the key to this last delicate lock. Just then I heard a
sound in the hall, and footsteps approaching. What should I do?
Without stopping to reflect, I closed the closet-door. As I did so,
the sitting-room door was opened, and my step-mother entered,
accompanied by Mark Abrams.
"'Be seated,' my mother said blandly; and in my covert I wondered
what could be coming. Mark obeyed, and drawing his chair nearer the
fire waited till she had laid aside her wrappings and seated herself
in front of him. Then she said:
"'It's too bad, Mark, that your love for Leah is so misplaced; but,
as I have told you before as mildly as possible, there are reasons
why her father would never consent--reasons that are unalterable.
Aside from poor Leah's unfortunate deformity, there--'
"'Deformity!' ejaculated Mark, in utter surprise, 'I would like to
know how she is deformed? She, the most perfect model that was ever
cast in mortal mould.'
"'Still, my friend, I feel that it is but just and proper that I
acquaint you with a painful fact; dear Leah is deformed.'
"'And how?' Mark uttered hoarsely.
"'She suffers from a spinal affection, that will in time render her
a hideous deformity, and perhaps a helpless, hopeless invalid.'
"'Merciful Heavens!' uttered Mark, with shocked and incredulous
expression, as he sat gazing into the fire. At length he said:
"'God knows how sorry I am to hear that, for I love her, love her
fondly!'
"Quickly discerning the effect of her story, my step-mother with
well-feigned feeling continued:
"'After Leah's school-term is ended, her father contemplates taking
her to Europe for medical advice and skill, and in case of
improvement, which is scarcely supposable or to be hoped for, he has
long ago promised her hand to the son of a wealthy cousin somewhere
in that country--Baron von something--I can't remember hard names.'
"At length Mark looked up again and said:
"'Mrs. Mordecai, do not distress me farther. How can I credit your
story? How can I believe that Miss Leah is aught but what she
seems--the embodiment of health and beauty? Alas! for my broken,
vanished hopes! Alas! for my golden dreams of the future!'
"'Oh! don't take things too much to heart, my boy. Leah does not
care for you very much anyway. It will be but a small disappointment
to her, if indeed she ever thought seriously of marrying you; and I
remember to have heard her say that she never intended to marry--
conscious of her affliction, I suppose.'
"Mark winced under these words, and replied, 'She need not have
deceived me.'
"'Oh! girls will be girls, you know; and after you get over this
trouble, if you still like the name, remember, here is Leah's sister
Sarah, as fine a girl as you'll find anywhere, if she is my
daughter.'
"'I could love her for her sister's sake, if nothing more,' said
Mark with feeling; and then he bowed his head upon the marble mantel
and looked steadily into the fire without a word.
"'Then if you desire,' continued my step-mother, with a little
assumed hesitation, 'after reflection, you may speak to her father
on the subject. Sarah will make a fine wife.'
"Think of me, Lizzie! Think of me, in that miniature dungeon,
silently listening to the death sentence of my earthly happiness!
Think of my weakness, in mutely listening to the lie that was,
perhaps, to wreck my whole life! Think of me, and pity me!" Leah
brushed away a tear, the first that had fallen from her stony eyes
since the beginning of her story; and then she continued:
"If Mark heeded these last words of my step-mother, he gave no
evidence of it, for he continued to stare blindly at the glowing
grate, apparently oblivious of every surrounding object. At length
he aroused, and said:
"'I must be going. Mrs. Mordecai, I bid you good night.'
"'Stay longer, I pray,' rejoined my step-mother; and he replied:
"'Not to-night; it's late now, and I must be alone. Alone!' he
reiterated sorrowfully, and then was gone in a moment.
All this time, Lizzie, I had stood shivering in my hiding-place,
with my trembling hand almost benumbed by the cold granite knob, by
which I held the door. I scarcely dared to breathe, for fear my
presence would be revealed. The ordeal was terrible, I assure you! I
thanked Heaven when I heard the library door open and close again,
this time upon the receding figure of my step-mother, for then I was
free again--free to breathe, and to move, and to sigh, if I chose,
without betraying my hiding-place, or the cause of my concealment. I
need not, could not if I chose, tell you of my feelings on that
occasion. I remember them but dimly, even now. But this much I do
remember, and so it shall be. I resolved that Mark Abrams should be
free, rather than be undeceived by any word of mine. My pride, the
little that is left in my soul, and my resentment, the shadow of it
that yet lingers about me, struggled for a time in a fierce contest,
and as usual, I yielded up my rights, and succumbed again to a cruel
fate. My heart has given up its treasure, and he will never know
aught of the bitter | sacrifice. I feel that I am ill-fated and
despised, Lizzie; and feeling so, I do not desire to overshadow the
life of Mark Abrams. I love him too much, too dearly, ever to
becloud his future with my miserable life. I would rather live on
and suffer in silence, as I have done for years, unloved and
unloving to the end."
Here the beautiful girl ceased her story. Both friends for a time
were silent. In Lizzie's soft blue eyes the tears glistened, and she
looked with surprise into the cold, hard face of Leah, which had
lost its gentle expression, and seemed petrified by this recital of
her woes. Then she said:
"Would I could help you, Leah, by sharing your sorrow."
"No mortal being can help me, Lizzie. I am ill-starred and
ill-fated, I fear."
Filled with sympathy, and with a heavy heart, Lizzie bent her head,
and laid it in Leah's lap; and her silent prayer, though unheard by
mortal ear, ascended to the throne of the Eternal Father, and was
answered in the far-off future.
"It's late, and we must go," said Leah; "already the street lamps
are being lighted, and I shall have to render some good excuse for
being out so late."
"So we must; it is growing late," Lizzie replied.
"Remember now, I trust you, Lizzie," said Leah.
"Never fear; I shall never betray your confidence."
Then the two girls left the window, walked hastily through the hall
and corridor, down the spiral staircase, out into the street, and
turned homeward.
CHAPTER VII.
THE two friends walked side by side in silence the distance of a
square, and then their paths divided.
As Lizzie Heartwell turned the corner that separated her from her
companion, she drew her shawl more closely around her benumbed form
and quickened the steps that were hurrying her onward to her uncle's
home. Her mind was filled with sad and gloomy thoughts--thoughts of
the life and character of her beloved friend. The misty twilight
seemed deepened by the tears that bedimmed her vision, as she
thought again and again of the life blighted by sorrow, and the
character warped by treachery and deceit.
"Alas!" thought she, "had the forming hand of love but moulded that
young life, how perfect would have been its symmetry! What a
fountain of joy might now be welling in that heart's desert waste,
where scarcely a rill of affection is flowing."
Filled with these and like thoughts, Lizzie reached the doorway of
her uncle's house, and was soon admitted beneath its hospitable
roof.
Leah Mordecai, when separated from Lizzie, plodded straight forward
toward her father's elegant home. The street lamps shone brightly,
but the departing daylight, that was spreading its gloom over the
world, was not half so dark and desolate as her poor heart. Yet Leah
seldom wept--her tears did not start, like watchful sentinels, at
every approach of pain or joy. Only when the shrivelled fountain of
her heart was deeply stirred, did this fair creature weep. Calm,
placid, and beautiful in the lamp-light, the features of her young
face betrayed no emotion, as she passed one and another, on beyond
the din of the garrulous multitude.
At last she stood before her father's gate, and rang the bell.
"Is that you, Miss Leah?" said Mingo the porter, as he opened the
door of the lodge.
"Yes, Mingo, I am late this evening. Has my father come home?"
"Has just passed in, miss."
"I am thankful for that," she murmured to herself. "Thank you,
Mingo," she added aloud, as the faithful attendant closed the door.
Nervous from excitement and emotion, it was late that same night
before Lizzie Heartwell could quiet herself to slumber. Leah's
melancholy story still haunted her.
At length she slept and dreamed--slept with the tear-stains on her
cheeks, and dreamed a strange, incongruous, haunting dream,
reverberating with the deadly war of artillery, and flashing with
blazing musketry. The sea, too, the quiet harbor, that she always
loved to look upon, was agitated and dark with mad, surging waves.
The gray old fort also stood frowning in the distance, with strange
dark smoke issuing from behind its worn battlements. And amid this
confusion of dreams and distorted phantasms of the brain, ever and
anon appeared the sweet, sad face of Leah Mordecai, looking with
imploring gaze into the face of her sleeping friend.
But at length this disturbed and mysterious slumber was ended by the
morning sun throwing its beams through the window pane and arousing
the sleeper to consciousness. Once awakened, Lizzie sprang from her
bed, and involuntarily drew aside the snowy curtain that draped the
east window. Then she looked toward the blue sea that surrounded the
fort, and exclaimed, "How funny! Defiance is standing grim and dark
in its sea-girt place as usual, and all is quiet in the harbor. How
funny people have such strange dreams. But I fear the vision of that
smoking fortress and that angry harbor will not fade soon from my
memory; perhaps I have a taint of superstition in my nature. But I
must hasten, or I'll be late for the morning worship. I believe I'll
tell my uncle of my dream."
CHAPTER VIII.
THE month sped on. The end of Madam Truxton's year was rapidly
advancing. School-friendships that had grown and matured within the
seminary walls, now deepened and intensified as the day for final
separation approached. All were studying, with a zeal commendable
and necessary, too, for the final ordeal through which Madam
Truxton's pupils must necessarily pass.
Since that dark, gloomy day when Leah Mordecai acquainted Lizzie
Heartwell with some of the facts of her sad life, not a word further
had been spoken on the subject. But they had seemed bound to each
other by an indissoluble bond of love. No word harsher than a
caress, and no look sterner than a smile, had Lizzie ever cast upon
Leah; and as the thirsty, withered flowers drink up the dew of
heaven, so this girl of misfortune received that tender, unalloyed
love.
The inexorable duties of the school were pressing, forbidding long
confidential talks and clandestine interviews. Each and all were
impressed with the fact that they were approaching an important,
and, to some, a dreaded epoch in their lives.
Leah had long since acquainted Lizzie with the consummation of her
fears, informing her of the engagement between Mark Abrams and her
sister Sarah. With this information--this avowal of her broken heart
and hopes--Leah had enshrouded the subject with silence and laid it
away, as we lay our treasures in the tomb. Lizzie, always
compassionate and discreet, made no mention of it; and so the
silence was unbroken as the days passed on.
In the Citadel Square, far above Madam Truxton's seminary, the
drilling, drilling, drilling, was daily going on in these sunny
days. Drilling, drilling, drilling--for the coming battle of life, or
for the crimson strife of war that might desolate a land. Which was
it? Only the veiled years could answer this inquiry. Meanwhile, the
drilling still went on.
High hopes filled manly bosoms, and ambitious hearts throbbed
wildly, as the approaching end of the military year drew nigh.
Emile Le Grande sat dozing in his private chamber late one evening,
at the close of a severe day's duty, seated in a capacious
arm-chair, with his head dropped upon his breast. The young man was
dozing over the journal that he held in his unconscious grasp. Had
one stolen beside him and looked down, he might have read the
following entries, beginning many months previous to this evening.
"January.--I have seen the fair Leah but three times since Bertha
Levy's tea-party, yet I have passed her house daily for that purpose
ever since. Zounds! It's an ill fate, I swear! . . .
"February.--How my heart beat to-day, as I was walking arm-in-arm
with George Marshall, and we suddenly confronted the beautiful
Jewess as she was turning into Prince street.
"'What a magnificent face, Emile! What Hebrew maiden is that bowing
to you?'
"'Miss Mordecai,' I proudly replied, 'the Jewish banker's daughter,
of whom you have heard me speak before.'
"'Yes, certainly. Well, she is beautiful. You seem a little
bewitched, boy,', he said. And I said--nothing.
"March.--I am more and more perplexed. The Jewess is at the bottom of
it all. To-day I hinted to Helen something of my fancy for Leah
Mordecai. She only laughed. I was irritated by her ridicule, and I
told her I intended to marry Leah if I could. Her silly reply was,
'Well, suppose you can't?' School-girls are intolerably silly, at
Helen's age! She thinks now of nothing and nobody but Henry Packard,
and he's the stupidest cadet in the institute--everybody knows that.
I wish I had a sister that could sympathize with me. Wh-e-e-w! I am
altogether out of sorts. Maybe I'll be all right to-morrow.
"April.--Prof. Brown said to-day that I was not studying hard enough,
and if I did not spur up I should come out shabbily at the end of
the term.
"George Marshall, too, good fellow that he is, says I think too much
about the girl. Maybe I do; but I should like him to tell me how a
fellow is to help it. That Jewess bewilders me! If old Mordecai was
not rich, I should love her for her dreamy eyes. I'll swear, ever
since she spoke to me so sweetly a week ago, and gave me a clasp of
her white, slender hand, I haven't cared whether I was prompt at
parade, studies, or anything else--so I could always be prompt at
meeting her. She looks doleful sometimes. She cannot be very happy.
I wonder what my mother would think if she could read this journal.
But, old book, you never tell any tales, do you?
"May.--The days are growing warmer--beautiful days, too. Everything is
in bloom, and the old Queen City looks charming. The girls, too,
Madam Truxton's and all others, swarm about the town like bees in a
rose-garden. I meet them at every turn.
"My uniform is getting rather shabby; the buttons and lace are quite
tarnished. I must have a new suit before long.
"I am a lucky fellow of late--have seen Leah M. many times. She came
home with Helen twice, and I have walked with her many times. I have
told her that I love her, but she does not seem inclined to trust
me. Only to-day I sent her a magnolia leaf, upon which was written,
'Je vous aime, ma belle Juive.' Helen said she smiled as she took it
and said, 'Thank him, if you please.' That was favorable, I think.
Yes I consider myself a lucky fellow.
"June 1.--I am all out of sorts to-night. Things have not gone
smoothly at the Citadel to-day. I was again reprimanded by that old
bald-headed Brown. He must forget that I am a man, and not a mere
boy. I don't care whether 'I pass,' or not, as the boys say.
"'Deficient in mathematics,' the professor said, gravely; and I
suppose I am. I never could endure figures, and yet I must make my
living by them.
"French I understand pretty well. I depend upon that to help me
through.
"George Marshall will do all he can for me, I know; there's no
better cadet in the institute; old Brown says that himself. I find
that George was right when he told me long ago that I had too many
thoughts in my head about the girls. Deuce take the thoughts! but
they are there. My very proper and punctilious mother, too, has been
scoring me lately. Somehow she found out my fancy. Whew! how she did
scold me! Said she would like to know if I had forgotten the blood
that flowed in the Le Grande veins! If I were lost to family pride
and honor so far as to mingle my blood with that of the old
pawnbroker, Mordecai! How she looked! How she stamped the floor with
her dainty foot when I hinted at the fact that my maternal
grandfather was neither duke nor lord! How she hushed my
'impertinence,' as she styled it, with such invectives as 'fool,
idiot, plebeian'! Heigho! But I felt that it was unmanly in me to
provoke mother so, and I begged her pardon.
"I did not promise her, though, to leave off loving Leah Mordecai. I
did not tell her, either, that I had asked Leah to be my wife one of
these days, when school-days were ended.
"June 5.--The closing exercises of the schools have been hurried up
this year, as the weather is exceedingly warm, and the Board of
Health fear a return of the terrible scourge, yellow fever, that so
devastated this fair city five years ago. Next week, Madam Truxton's
seminary closes, and that is one week before the institute does.
Invitations to Madam's levee are already out. The graduating class
of cadets are invited--lucky fellows!
"Helen seems really sad at the prospect of parting with her
school-days and her friends. But then she is eighteen, and that's
quite old enough for a girl to come out. She says, too, that of all
the girls at school, Lizzie Heartwell will be the most regretted
when she leaves the Queen City for her home in a distant State. She
is quite a pretty girl, but too religious, I should judge, from what
Helen says. Her mother is a widow. I guess they are poor.
"Mother is quite reconciled to me again, and spoke playfully to me
last night about marrying Miss Belle Upton, who is to visit Helen
next week and attend the closing of Madam Truxton's school. Well,
'we shall see what we shall see,' but I hardly think I will. She can
hardly eclipse 'Leah Mordecai the beautiful,'--that's the way I write
it now."
CHAPTER IX.
THE examination-days at Madam Truxton's were over. The long-dreaded
reviews had been passed with credit to both pupils and instructors.
The certificates of scholarship, and the "rewards of merit," had
been given to the fortunate competitors; the long-coveted diplomas
awarded to the expectant "finishing class," and that memorable term
of school life was closed forever. The hour for the event had come.
The grand old drawing-rooms above the assembly hall in the spacious
building were filled to repletion--filled with the patrons and
select guests that were honored with the fastidious Madam's
courtesy. It was an elegant assembly, one characteristic of the
Queen City in her days of unostentatious aristocracy, of gentle-bred
men and women.
Conspicuous among the famed guests were the three-score cadets,
themselves just ready to emerge from college walls and step forth
with triumphant tread upon life's broad opening field.
The "finishing class" numbered more than a score of girls--all young,
some gifted, many beautiful--whose homes were scattered far and wide
through the country; young girls who, for many months, and even
years, had lived and studied and loved together, with all the ardor
and strength of youth. Now they were to be sundered; sundered with
no prospect of future reunion.
All felt this approaching separation with more or less sorrow,
according to their varying natures; and some contemplated it with
deep regret.
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